Redemptio Opus
by Mattwho81
Summary: Dispatched to seek penance among the stars Chaplain Wrethan must guide the warriors of the Storm Heralds on the path to redemption. Seeking absolution they find themselves embroiled in a bitterly contested War of Faith. Forgiveness lies within their grasp but what price will it cost them? Art by Judd Abinuman
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading List**

**Book 1 **_Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur._

**Book 2**_ Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi._

**Book 3**_ Captum Ante, Veneum Filios, Locum Ignotum, Domus Discordia._

**Book 4**_ Cincere Tempestas, Ignis in Vacui, Indomitus Bellum, Falsa Verum._

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 1**

The Rhino rocked from side to side, its motions jarring and random. Tracks roared as they hit the uneven surface, sending stones and slag skittering away down the slope. Even from the inside it was clear that they were traversing a sharp incline, for the Rhino was canted at a steep angle, making the prayer-beads and incense brazier hanging from the roof tilt at an alarming angle. It was a most uncomfortable ride but she was used to that, she had trained since before she could remember with all manner of arms and war machines.

Justini tried to put the discomfort aside as they roared along, repeating her prayers over and over as she slipped a loop of holy beads through her gauntleted hands. She was in the flower of youth, fresh and energetic. At first glance she could be called pretty, with cropped blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, full lips and an excessive amount of freckles across her nose. Yet that assessment was not the whole story, her lip was split by a rising scar on the right side and the crook of her nose hinted that it had been broken in a fight. Her body was concealed by her ceramite armour but underneath she was corded with dense muscle, the result of rigorous training from a young age and her head moved with the distinctive 'rotate then lift' action of one accustomed to looking at the world through targeting reticules.

Justini was clad in black armour with red highlights, a hanging baltea and at her hip were a Godwyn-De'az pattern boltgun and a combat blade. Her plate bore numerous icons of devotion, purity seals and a small reliquary containing holy water from Ophelia VII. On one knee was a fleur-de-lis and on the other was the red heart on white cross emblem of the Order of the Valorous Heart. For she was a sworn warrior-maiden of the Adepta Sororitas: the Sisters of Battle.

Justini's head unexpectedly snapped back against her power generator as the Rhino hit a particularly large bump and she fought the urge to swear out loud as her skull throbbed. Justini was proud to wear her plate and admired the way it boosted her strength and resilience, but in her hearts of hearts, she was certain that it must have been designed for appearances as much as protection. The plate was a mighty boon to a warrior but it also pinched her waist uncomfortably, the neck ring was too high and the contours of the front left rather a lot of empty space between its swells and her actual bosom. Justini chided herself for the impious thought and prayed, "God-Emperor of Mankind, who sees all and knows all, may you forgive your servant for her weakness and grant her the strength to do your will." Around her five other Sisters lowered their heads in prayer, seeking communion with the God-Emperor before the fight began. Such was the way of the Adepta Sororitas, their physical armour was only part of their protection, their spiritual armour was deemed far superior. They believed in the Terran Emperor's righteous power and their faith was their sword and their shield.

Suddenly there was a clatter as one Sister stood up, bearing a long chainsword at her hip. This was Sister-Superior Karna, a stern and zealous leader and she proclaimed, "Prepare Sisters, we disembark in sixty seconds."

"Situation?" Justini inquired.

"Enemy's are advancing through the spoil," Karna replied, "The Frater Militia are being slaughtered, the Heretical Disciples of Ruin drive all before them."

Another Sister, Praxi, asked, "Any sign of Flesh-Golems?"

"None," Karna replied, "The blasphemers send us their dregs, but they do so in vast numbers. Cannoness-Preceptor Phantea is dispatching five squads and armoured units to stay their advance. We will be the first into the field so make ready for war!"

The Sisters hurriedly donned their helms and Justini saw the world resolve into the familiar shapes of info-runes and targeting reticules. Her five Sister's life-signs popped up in her vision and she was reassured by their steady unblinking vitals, none of them was panicking. As one they picked up their bolters and faced the rear door, waiting to enter the heart of war. Karna tested the vox-link then declared, "In the name of the God-Emperor, we shall meet the foe this day and send them back to the hell that spawned them!"

"In His name," they cried as one then the Rhino rocked to a halt and the ramp slammed down.

Justini was instantly moving, gripping her red-cased bolter tightly as the squad disembarked. Before them lay a vista of hell, lit by flaming pools of liquid. The ground was a long slope of ash and grit, mixed with fused lumps of metal and broken bits of devices. Smoke and flame filled the air, ejected by craters overflowing with fire. Visibility was reduced to a dozen feet but dead bodies lay scattered everywhere, men and women in rags and torn clothes. They were covered in wounds and burns, but these were not recent, in fact many of them looked self-inflicted. This was what remained of the Frater Militia in this sector, the civilian volunteers that served as the bulk of the Ecclesiarchy's fighting force.

Justini could not see very far but she knew the spoil ran for miles, stretching all the way up to the high walls of Tethys Hive, whose industrial spill-off had created this polluted desolation. Faint flashes of light and noise in the smoke testified that the war still raged on across its vast bulk but Justini had no time to stop and stare, for the squad was already moving, heading deeper into the morass of smoke and fire. Sister Praxi commented, "Looks like an incendiary barrage took out the Fraters in this section."

"Ours or theirs?" Justini mused.

"Hardly matters anymore," Praxi answered, "The Fraters aren't concerned about collateral damage."

"Quiet," Karna snapped, "Keep alert, the Disciples of Ruin can't be far."

Justini swallowed as she peered through the smoke, her autosenses seeking to penetrate the miasma. Her autosense detected movement ahead and that it was coming closer. The squad halted and presented their bolters, waiting for the first target as Justini fought the urge to open fire prematurely. Her eyes spotted a burnt-out Macharius heavy-tank, one of the inferior marks granted to the Frater Militia, and for a second she courted the idea of suggesting they seek cover. Then she dismissed the notion, they had more than armour and weapons on their side, they had the Blessings of the God-Emperor. What worth was mere cover when measured against the shining faith of the Sisters of Battle?

Suddenly the smoke parted and dead-ahead was revealed a wall of ragged flesh, the Disciples of Ruin charging right at them. "Open fire!" Karna screamed and six bolters answered, blasting mass-reactive rounds at the filthy Heretics. Justini fired three-round bursts with each pull of her trigger, greeting the foe with blazing death. Her spine rattled with the violence of her weapon's discharge, even her blessed power armour unable to completely compensate for the enormous recoil of mass-reactive rounds. Her teeth chattered and her arms shook but she was used to that and her aim was steady and unwavering.

With sure shots she blew apart vague shapes in the smoke, the mass-reactive rounds striking exposed flesh and burrowing deeply within. One second after impact the bolts detonated, blasting bodies apart in sprays of gore and entrails that showered down upon their fellows. Justini cut down foes left and right, then her magazine clunked empty, she hurriedly ejected it and slotted in a new clip. She resumed firing but in that moment the Disciples had closed the gap, charging right into the teeth of the Sister's fire. Dozens of foes had fallen but the rest cared not, utterly inured to the horror of their comrades' deaths. They flung themselves into the raging storm of destruction, taking step after step despite their ferocious losses and Justini cried, "There's too many of them!"

Sister Praxi called out, "We should fall-back and regroup!"

"No!" Karna shrieked, "Stand your ground, not one inch back! Trust in His grace and let the Hymns of Victory sound this day!"

Justini saw the enemy bunch up to charge into the fray and she hurriedly clamped her bolter to her hip and drew her combat blade. Behind her she heard the vox-hailers fitted to their Rhino squawk into life and begin playing faint music, ancient hymnals that praised the righteousness and majesty of the God-Emperor. With the stirring notes ringing over the field Justini braced herself for the fight to come. A heartbeat later a wall of bodies came at the Sisters, charging at them with hands raised in fury. Justini saw a Heretic run at her and met him with the point of her blade, ramming the point into an eye socket. Another came at her from the side but her ceramite-clad elbow shattered the face and drove bone shards into the brain. Another she felled with a kick that shattered a knee and another she gutted with a disembowelling strike. Empowered by their blessed plate the Sisters were reaping a fearfully tally, but so many were the foe that it was making no difference.

This close Justini could see the Heretics in detail and one could be forgiven for thinking they were not so different from the Frater Militia. Men and women, young and old, rich and poor, lame and sick, the foe came from all walks of life. Yet they differed in two respects, firstly their brands and tattoos were not righteous Aquillas but the sickening icons of Chaos. Secondly, each of them had a thick metal collar riveted around their neck and shoulders, embedded with chemicals vials. These collars forced a cocktail of Frenzon and Slaught into their bloodstream, driving their fury and granting them unholy vitality.

Justini felt their hands clawing at her armour and thrashed about, breaking arms and snapping limbs. But the Disciples cared not, pain could not penetrate their drug-addled minds and they could see nothing but red rage. They clawed at her plates and broke their teeth on her armour, seeking weak points. Some foes retained enough sense to cling to sharpened daggers and these chipped and gouged her black armour as they sought out the joints. Justini shoulder-barged a screaming Heretic away, whose eyes were red with fury and she shouted, "We're being overrun!"

Karna's chainsword roared as she lopped off limbs and tore open bodies and the Sister Superior cried, "Hold the line! To admit defeat is to blaspheme against the God-Emperor!"

On and on the foe came, emerging from the smoke in all directions as they piled in. Justini fought to her utmost, feeling her heart thundering in her chest as she smashed and hacked and tore at the crowd of deranged enemies. She was slaying dozens, but their numbers were growing and their weight threatened to bowl her over. Then she felt a sharp pain in the back of her knee as a dagger sank into the joint. Her leg gave way and she fell to one knee as the Disciples of Ruin piled in, battering at her armour with their fists.

Justini thought that the hour of her death had come and commended her soul to the God-Emperor but then there was a deep-seated roar as something big raced through the smoke. Praxi yelled aloud, "Beware! Flesh-Golem!"

But Karna's voice filled with wonder as she cried, "No, no look! Look!"

Justini managed to get her head up and saw through the smoke a tracked vehicle, rolling across the spoil with deadly intent. Set high above a Sister sat in an armourglass cupola, that bore two heavy weapons, with gaping nozzles set at each end. Justini's jaw fell and she gasped, "Immolator!"

The tank charged into the fray, crushing Heretics under its treads and then its twin Heavy Flamers let loose. Burning plumes of Promtheium swept over the field, clinging to Heretic bodies as it coated them head to toe. The Disciples screamed as they flailed in agony, even their chem-addled brains unable to ignore being burnt alive. They fell down in droves as their bodies were reduced to charred skeletons and the smell of roasting flesh was sickening. The Immolator drove right into the heart of battle, burning swathes of foes and shattering their charge. Justini saw the heat-levels soar in her visor but her plate held true and spared her the ignominy of burning to death. Her attackers were not so fortunate, falling down as they were set alight. The blows stopped raining upon her and Justini managed to lurch to her feet, wincing at the pain in her leg. Everywhere Disciples were dying, flaming corpses scattered about in all directions and Sister Superior Karna was already following the advancing Immolator crying, "Behold, the Heretic falls before the wrath of the God-Emperor, but those who are righteous in His sight shall walk through fire and death untouched! On Sisters, victory is close. Praise be!"

Filled with righteous zeal Justini and her Sister followed and as she took up her bolter she cried with fervour, "Praise be. Praise be!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Redemptio Opus chapter 2**

The enemy's last stand had come and they knew it. Their hosts lay decimated, their elites had fallen and their base was a flaming ruin. They had fought ferociously and with great vigour, but their weapons and tactics had proved ineffective, now they would pay the price for daring to set foot upon one of the Emperor's worlds. Their doom was upon them and it would not be gainsaid.

Chaplain Wrethan could see the last of the Xenos gathering under the shadow of the town's stockade. The insectile-Xenos Chromes had torn through that flimsy plasteel barrier with ease, but they had not been expecting the rapid counter-attack of the Emperor's Finest. The scurrying hordes had been broken by Transhuman giants falling from the skies on wings of fire, the thud of bolt rounds and the roaring of chainswords delivering swift and certain death. Fire and steel had spelt their end, now all that remained was to finish the job.

Chaplain Wrethan gripped his Crozius, Redeeming-Flame, tightly and looked to the Assault squad beside him as he roared, "End them!" As one the Space Marines burst into motion, covering the distance in moments. Wrethan was at the head of the charge and he saw one of the six-limbed insects skitter towards him, claws raised to stab for his heart. Yet Wrethan did not hesitate, he redoubled his pace, leaping past its serrated talons and went straight for shiny carapace. Redeeming-Flame made contact and there was a flash of red light as the concussive field discharged, crushing the innards of the Chrome in one mighty blow as he bellowed, "Die Xenos filth!"

Instantly another one reared up, trying to stab him in the back but he swept about with lightning speed and it missed him by an inch. He swung his Crozius underhand and caught the Chrome beneath its abdomen, sending it flying away over the battle, raining ichor from its shattered shell. He had no time to celebrate for a third one jumped at him, claws falling from above. Wrethan's reflexes were blurring as he raised Redeeming-Flame laterally to catch the blow. The Chrome froze in shock as its attack was blocked and Wrethan snarled as he twisted his Crozius, shearing off one long talon. The Chrome staggered back and Wrethan pursued, swinging for its centre mass. The Chrome however managed to duck and his attack merely clipped a trailing antenna. Wrethan's lip curled but he did not hesitate to attack again, hitting it square and crushing it into paste. The Chrome collapsed but Wrethan was not pleased, three strikes to kill a bug, that was a poor showing.

The Chaplain's head came up and he saw the battle was over, the Xenos having been decimated by the Space Marines. The Astartes were covered in stinking ichor but none of them had fallen and Wrethan had expected no less. The Chaplain drew in a breath and called out, "Sergeant, take your squad and sweep the area for strays, leave none alive."

"By your will," the Assault Sergeant replied as the squad dispersed.

The battle was over and Wrethan took a moment to survey the aftermath. This little township was a rude affair, nothing more than prefab huts and upright plasteel panels for a stockade. Heavy damage was evident from the cross-fire but it was nothing that could not be replaced. Beyond the stockade a vast jungle stretched, thick and impenetrable, but on the horizon a billowing column of black smoke marred the waning evening light. That was the Chromes' blister-nest, burning to ash under the gunship onslaught of Captain Tygra. The warp-migrating Xenos had come to this world expecting an easy victory but the Space Marines of the Storm Heralds had shown them the folly of trespassing in one of the Emperor's Dominions.

Chaplain Wrethan presented a dour and grim figure, his black plate adorned with purity seals and votive parchments and upon his breast was a winged skull design. His helm was similarly fashioned like a skull, giving him a macabre air and in his hand was the sacred weapon-symbol of his office, a Crozius Arcanum. Wrethan surveyed the scene and was satisfied that all was in order then opened his vox and called, "Captain Erathor, this is Chaplain Wrethan. The western flank is secured."

The vox popped for a moment then a commanding voice came back, "Confirmed Father Wrethan, central and eastern flanks secured. We are sweeping for survivors, but I doubt we will find any. I think we got them all."

"Be sure," Wrethan growled, "We cannot afford to miss a single Xenos."

"I know what I am doing," Erathor snapped testily, "Tygra's taskforce has completed its objectives and is headed back to the Pax Mortis in orbit. Meet me in the town centre to conclude our business here."

"Affirmative," Wrethan replied then the vox cut off.

Wrethan set off at once, headed back to the centre of the town. As he did so he considered his fellow officers, Brother-Captain Erathor was in nominal command of this expedition, he was a prideful and arrogant soul, but he understood the necessity of their quest. His second, Captain Tygra, was a different matter. Tygra was a fierce warrior indeed, but also scornful and sly, he lacked perspective and doubted the importance of their mission, a fact he and Wrethan clashed over frequently.

Wrethan spied a squad of Storm Heralds checking piles of stinking Xenos carcasses for signs of life and he noted the contrition marks upon their plate. These warriors hailed from a Penance Company, a Brotherhood sworn to give battle as atonement for past crimes. These Space Marines had taken part in a shameful rebellion against their own blood-kin, fighting for a tainted cause under the banners of assassins and usurpers. True Believers, they had called themselves, yet their cause had proved anything but true. They had forsaken their honour and once the dust had settled they had been sentenced to a Penitent Crusade, to earn redemption for their sins.

Wrethan himself was no exception. He too had fought in the civil war; he had slain noble Brothers-in-arms and executed helpless prisoners, who had remained pure where he had not. Some might argue that he had been misled, that he had been tricked by the ringleaders of the rebellion, the power-mad Chief Apothecary Lessall and the fanatical High Chaplain Samect, but Wrethan would hear none of it. He had chosen his side of his own free will, he had thrown away all the bonds of Brotherhood that he once cherished and had betrayed his sworn oaths. No matter that he had seen the truth at the end, blood was literally on his hands, sometimes he thought he could still see it on his armour, and he understood that their sentence was merited and just.

He deserved to be punished, they all did.

Wrethan paused as he saw a slain Brother, being tended to by Apothecary Santes. The Apothecary order had been marked for special censure, condemned to wear the Chains of Shame upon their arms for heretical experiments and the murder of thousands of aspirants. The Apothecary was carefully extracting the gene-seed, those sacred implants essential to the creation of Space Marines. Wrethan was surprised even one Space Marine had fallen and he drifted closer, noting his name: Brother Dexael.

Wrethan waited until the rite was completed then asked, "How did he fall?"

"Does it matter?" Santes muttered as he stood up, "He's dead."

"Of course it matters," Wrethan exclaimed, "His death must be measured and judged, to see if his final act was worthy enough to redeem his name."

"Pah," Santes spat, "He was sent on this Emperor-forsaken meatgrinder and died, just like the rest of us will."

Wrethan's ire stirred and he growled, "Your lack of faith disturbs me. We are sworn to our quest of atonement. Life, death, these things are inconsequential, what matters is the restoration of our honour."

Santes snorted in derision and sneered, "You will get us all killed with your quest for forgiveness, you who killed more Brothers than any of us."

Yet Wrethan was undaunted and faced him squarely uttering, "You forget, we all committed crimes that warranted swift execution, yet we have been granted a chance at redemption and we must strive to be worthy of it. Death is certain for all Space Marines and we do not get to choose when or where it falls. All we can choose is how we face it, with our pride and honour intact or shame-faced with regret."

Santes looked like he would argue more but Wrethan's will was implacable and the Apothecary's eyes lowered. Wrethan was satisfied and left him to tend to the wounded. Soon he approached the town's heart, where he saw Captain Erathor talking to a mortal man. The Captain was proud and domineering in his artificer plate, his arms swollen by the bulk of retracted twin-lightning claws. Yet both his legs were exposed masses of pistons and rods, augmetic replacements for the organic ones that had been taken from him by a rampaging Dreadnought in the final battle of the rebellion. The other man was unremarkable, yet he passed for the Imperial Governor on this misbegotten backwater.

Wrethan hadn't paid any attention to the mortal previously but he dredged his memory and recalled the man's name was Lagget… Lartet, Latteg, no, no it was Lagget, he was right the first time. The man was looking up at Erathor with fear and awe in equal measure and wringing his hands as he queried, "You're sure they're gone?"

Erathor deigned to look down at the cowering man and said, "Stop fouling your britches; they shall not trouble you again."

Lagget swallowed nervously as he said, "We'd never seen anything like them, they came out of nowhere six weeks ago and slaughtered half the townships. We are an Emperor-fearing world but a poor one, the Imperium only gave us gear fit for logging operations, our PDF troopers couldn't hold them back."

Wrethan joined the pair as he declared, "It is by the Emperor's beneficence that our Strike Cruiser was passing nearby, else we would not have picked up your Astropathic distress call."

Lagget looked glum as he groaned, "But so many people died."

Wrethan replied, "Honour them by rebuilding and improving your defence force. Your soldiers are slovenly and ill-disciplined, I recommend the vigorous application of floggings, to encourage them to do better."

Lagget nodded several times but then took a loop of coiled wires from his belt and offered it up saying, "You have the gratitude of the people of Bertram's Point. We do not have much, but this wreath was woven by our school-children, while we hid in our bunker. Take it as a sign of our thanks."

Erathor moved to pick it up but Wrethan stated, "We cannot accept your laurel."

Erathor took on a frown over his scarred and swarthy features as he said, "But surely…"

Wrethan turned his skull-helm upon him as he rebuked, "You know the conditions of our Death Oath: we are a Penance Company, we accept not titles or laurels. We swore to claim no glories and win no tribute; we pledged only to serve until our shame is expunged."

Erathor nodded in acceptance then sighed, "Keep it."

"I don't understand," Lagget protested, "Here, it's yours."

It was Lagget's turn to receive Wrethan's withering glare as the Chaplain barked, "You are laying temptation before my Brothers, endangering their spiritual recovery. Persist and I shall grow displeased with you. The Emperor's work calls us back to the stars so I suggest you leave immediately and return to your own duties."

Lagget gulped loudly then turned and scurried away. The pair watched him go and then Erathor sighed, "Was this worth it?"

"Was what?" Wrethan asked in a more casual fashion.

"Saving this world," Erathor elaborated, "It's strategically worthless, what is the total population of this planet, a million? Less? In the normal course of our duties, we would have left it to burn and sought a more significant war to fight in."

Wrethan shook his head and remind him, "Do not forget the other part of our oath: we are the shield of those with no other defence, the answer to the prayers of those who cry out for deliverance. We swore not to turn our gaze away from the least of His subjects, to never scorn the weakest cry for aid. We are the last hope for the hopeless, the protectors of those souls abandoned by the high and mighty. It is a selfless and noble calling."

"I know," Erathor muttered, "Yet I grow tired of nothing wars and meaningless fights. A decade of smiting piffling enemies and watching our numbers get whittled down one by one. How many Brothers have we lost now, seven?"

"Eight," Wrethan replied solemnly, "Brother Dexael fell in the battle."

"Damnation," Erathor snarled, "What a miserable little cesspit this is to die for."

That part Wrethan could not argue with and he drew in a breath to say, "Come Brother-Captain, let us conclude our business swiftly and return to the Pax Mortis. Then we shall see if we can find a more meaningful war to involve ourselves in."


	3. Chapter 3

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 3**

The landing bay was filled with noise as the last Thunderhawk set down. Everywhere serfs bustled to and fro, tending the Machine Spirit's woes and soothing their spirits with sacred unguents while the Storm Heralds disembarked, towering over the mortals as they marched from the bay towards their dormitories. Wrethan was pleased by this industrious activity, despite a decade of arduous crusading the Strike Cruiser Pax Mortis remained an efficient and well-run ship. This had been the Penance Company's home ever since their quest began, aside from the occasional resupply at naval stations, they had not paused in their crusade. They had sworn to never relent until they had achieved some deed so noble as to earn the Emperor's forgiveness or failing that until one hundred years had passed.

Behind him Erathor and Santes stomped down the ramp. Wrethan waited at the foot of the ramp as Erathor opened a vox channel to the bridge and ordered, "Helm, this is Captain Erathor. Break orbit and plot a course to the Warp Translation point by a least-time vector."

Santes waited for him to finish then stated, "I should get this gene-seed to the cyro-vault."

"It will have to wait a moment," Erathor stated, "Here comes Tygra."

Indeed through the throng came Captain Tygra, his head held high to reveal pinched features that were filled with sullen resentment. Tygra was a sly and sycophantic officer, yet he had shed his own share of his kin's blood too. He bore an Eviscerator across his back, the weapon of an honourless cur. Tygra was one of only a handful of officers to survive the civil war, the rest having been slaughtered by the Chapter's Dreadnoughts. Tygra hadn't come out unscathed though; both his arms were dull augmetic replacements. He had made the mistake of charging Dreadnought Bellerophon, only to have both his arms ripped from their sockets. Wrethan sometimes wished that the dreadnought had taken his head, for Tygra was resentful of their quest, refusing to see that they had done anything wrong. Victor's Justice he called it, and he and Wrethan had butted heads many times over the matter.

Erathor however greeted Tygra warmly and called, "Hail Brother-Captain, my congratulations on a swift victory."

Tygra sounded indifferent as he replied, "Wasn't much to it, air strikes took out the perimeter defences then we merely fought our way inside and planted Plasma bombs in the heart of the blister-nest. Three squads were overkill against Chromes."

"Still, we saved a world," Wrethan pointed out.

"A worthless one," Tyga spat, "Saving a mere million people was a complete waste of time."

"Yet our Death Oath demanded no less," Wrethan growled in irritation, "One more step along the road to redemption."

Tygra snorted, "Here we go again. When will you accept that we were dispatched into the stars to die?"

Wrethan anger stirred and he barked, "Redemption is yet possible. The road is harsh and cast in darkness but that is proper. Atonement must be earned in pain and blood, else it would not mean anything, yet through suffering, we can purge our sins and become righteous once more."

Yet Tygra was not swayed and spat, "Stop peddling fantasies, our victorious kin wanted us gone, but didn't want to get their hands dirty. This Penitent Crusade is nothing but a tidy way to dispose of us."

Wrethan's fists clenched at that but Erathor interrupted, "Cease quarrelling, both of you! Ten years of listening to you two needle each other; I've heard this argument so often I can recite it word for word. I beseech the Emperor for a single day when the pair of you forgo arguing."

Wrethan fell silent but then Santes spoke up to mutter, "Look out, here comes trouble."

Wrethan looked about and saw a wizened serf-cleric crossing the rapidly emptying bay. He was old and worn, in a way no Space Marine would ever be, and had a long thin beard that hung down to his sternum. His scalp had only a few wisps of hair and his eyes squinted as he slowly approached. He wore a long brown robe and from his belt hung various clerical tools and a large book. This was Holois and he was the Rememberancer of the Penance Company, an ancient title, taken and repurposed for their own situation.

Everyone was silent as Holois closed, then bowed as much as his stiff back allowed and croaked, "Hail my Lords, I come to fulfil my duty."

Erathor nodded and called, "Bring forth the body."

From behind them a quartet of servitors emerged, bearing a litter upon which lay the broken body of Brother Dexael. They ground down the ramp then halted as Erathor declared, "Brother Dexael fell in honourable battle and submits his spirit for judgement."

Holois took the thick leather book from his belt and opened it; he squinted at a page then asked, "Did anyone witness his death?"

"I did," Santes proclaimed, "We were advancing in the centre, driving the Chromes before us. Yet a sudden counter-attack caught us in the flank and drove us back. Dexael was separated from his squad and forced down a side street. He ran as fast as he could but the Chromes were quicker, he killed two of them but the other five overwhelmed him."

Wrethan saw Holois look up from his book and the Chaplain's hearts fell as the serf inquired, "He died running?"

Santes frowned as he argued, "The tactical situation allowed no other option, he had to fall back and regroup with the squad."

Holois' eyes narrowed as he probed, "Brother Dexael did not lay down his life to protect the innocent or his Brothers?"

Santes argued, "The whole Company was fighting to save that miserable town."

But Holois firmly closed his book and said, "Brother Dexael died fighting for himself, to save his own life. That is not a worthy end; he has not redeemed his honour. I hold his Death Oath unfilled, his sins are not expunged in the Emperor's sight."

Wrethan's guts clenched at the judgement but there was nothing to be done, their Death Oath allowed no other recourse. Stonily the Chaplain growled, "His name is barred from the Scrolls of Honour. Strip the armour from the body, throw the corpse out an airlock and burn the gene-seed. He shall have no legacy among us."

Santes' hand closed protectively about the canopic jar on his waist and he protested, "You can't mean to…"

Erathor turned on him and snarled, "That was an order!"

Santes glared back, his Apothecary training demanding he preserve the gene-seed at all costs, but he had no choice but to back down. Sullenly Santes lowered his eyes and turned to lead the servitors away, his stomping gait making his resentment plain. Holois followed him, to guarantee the Apothecary carried out the order and didn't try to secret the gene-seed somewhere.

The trio watched them depart then Tygra snarled, "I despise that odious little wretch, always watching and judging us. Who is a serf to judge us?!"

Wrethan sighed and said, "It is a hard duty but someone must do it, redemption must be earned."

Erathor added, "He's judged barely half our dead worthy, the rest he condemned. There are only eighty-nine of us left, how many more will he condemn? How are we meant to earn our redemption if our numbers keep dwindling?"

Wrethan turned to him and uttered, "Holois merely fulfils the function of his office. To resent him is redundant, to hate him: Heretical."

Erathor sighed and said, "Indeed, we cannot change our Oath. Come, let us talk about what we can do."

With that he led the trio towards a transit capsule, that promptly whisked them deeper into the kilometres-long ship. Silence reigned as they swept along, each Brother lost in his own thoughts and Wrethan could not help but muse upon Dexael's failure. They were on a quest for redemption but their losses were mounting and their ability to fight was diminishing. Fifty years from now how many of them would be left? How could they seek atonement if there were not enough of them to fight anymore? Wrethan was forced to consider that their crusade was inadequate and their policy of fighting insignificant foes was not arduous enough. Perhaps they needed to embrace a more onerous challenge, to embrace pain and dare to act radically.

In minutes the capsule brought them to the Strategium and they exited before the armoured hatch before striding inside. Within they found a gaggle of serfs tending to the Hololithic projector and Erathor wasted not a moment to order, "Call up a map!"

The Serfs hastily bent to their labours, whispering balms unto the Spirits of the Machine and tapping it reverently with blessed silver hammers. After a moment a three-dimensional map of the galaxy sprang up, showing the various Segmentums. The galactic north was sundered by a vast rent, that sickening split in reality known as the Cicatrix Maledictum. Yet the map swiftly moved away from that and zoomed into Segmentum Tempestas, sectors flashed before their eyes until the map finally settled on a region far from the light of Terra. The Tahmarl Sector, their current location.

Erathor nodded in satisfaction and ordered, "Consult the Astropathic logs and display all recent distress calls." A horde of flashing red icons sprang up, looking like a bad rash as the sector's various woes were laid plain. There must have been hundreds of them, all marked highest urgency and one glance told the tale of the calamity that was overtaking the Imperium of Man.

Tygra sniffed at the sight and said, "We can respond to only one call at a time."

Wrethan nodded and said, "Cross-check with the Navigator's Empyreal projections and remove all calls we cannot respond to in time."

Four-fifths of the icons vanished and Erathor stepped closer and adjusted the controls, calling up a sub-projection of glowing text. This was one of a Captain's most solemn duties, he had to weigh the scale of the various threats against the forces he had at his disposal, judge where he could make a difference and what would see them obliterated outright. It was a terrible calculation of loss versus benefit and only for the most critical of reasons would any Captain lead his Marines into an unwinnable war. Erathor began scrolling the texts and muttered, "Orks amassing in the Ornates Pulsars? No, the Guard is already preparing a defence. Eldar raiders are attacking Forgeworld Zero-one-zero-one; the Mechanicus can deal with that. Hrud migration in the Gallopic Wastes… no."

After a few minutes, he highlighted four reports and declared, "Here are our possibilities, the Munitorum calls for the purging of pirates pestering their munition convoys. A War of Faith on the Hive World Ophanim IX has stalled. The settlers on the colony world Wysteria report the shadows have come alive or we could confront a Khrave incursion on the garden world Xathus."

Wrethan stated, "Not the convoys, they do not suit the requirements of our Death Oath."

Tygra added, "Colonists are always jumping at nothing, Wysteria sounds like a snipe hunt to me."

Erathor agreed, "The Khrave then."

Yet Wrethan mused, "What about the War of Faith?"

Tygra snorted in surprise and said, "What? Fight alongside some grubby fanatics?"

Wrethan gestured at the Hololith and replied, "Look at the reports, this war has raged for seven years and got nowhere. Millions of men and women have laid down their lives already and it shows no signs of ending."

Tygra however argued, "Wars of Faith are Ecclesiarchy business, waged by incompetent Fraters with fourth-rate gear. They get the last scrapings of the Mechanicus' output and don't even know how to use what little they get. The Fraters couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag without the Adepta Sororitas around."

Erathor concurred, "I think it best we leave this one to the Sisters of Battle."

Yet Wrethan argued, "What of our oath to fight for the helpless? The Frater Militia are not soldiers; they are civilian volunteers, innocent souls thrown into the meatgrinder. For seven years the Ecclesiarchy has gleefully expended their lives without thought; even the Imperial Guard are not so careless with the rank and file. What chance does the average Frater on that world have? The poor, huddled masses pray to Him on Terra for deliverance, they are helpless and without hope, our oath demands we be His answer."

Surprisingly Tygra added, "You have been muttering a lot about finding a more important war."

Erathor thought about it for a moment then uttered, "A Hive World is a vital resource and it would be good to fight a campaign of actual strategic significance. It is decided; I shall contact the Navigator and tell him to lay in a course for Ophanim IX. It should take four to sixteen weeks to get there, depending on Warp tides."

Wrethan nodded in acceptance but in his mind he was enthused. A war that had been stalled for seven years, this promised to be a most arduous challenge. Perhaps in the fires of battle they might finally see the possibility of redemption bloom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 4**

Justini knelt in her armour, her bare head lowered and her eyes clenched shut in prayer. In her hands she held her bolter upright before her, keeping its purity from touching the unconsecrated ground. Around her the members of her convent knelt as well, constituting a Preceptory of the Order of the Valorous Heart. They were spread out in long lines by squads, yet behind them huddled a mass of ragged and filthy people, the Frater Militia in their thousands.

Justini listened to the prayers booming out over the crowd, "From the Lightning and the Tempest."

As one Justini and the crowd intoned, "Emperor deliver us."

Again the voice cried, "From Heresy and the Perils of the Warp."

The crowd repeated, "Emperor deliver us."

The voice again called, "From the machinations of the arch-fiend Ferro Corde, whose nightmare Flesh-Golems come to rend our souls and gnaw on our marrow, who wants to drink our tears and feast on our… ar… arr… arrrgh!"

Justini's eyes opened as she glanced up. Before her a fat man in heavy cream robes was standing on an elevated lectern. This was Cardinal Pontius Pilate, the pontiff of this War of Faith. He was sweating profusely and his beady eyes were screwed up in pain as he gripped the lectern. The reason for this was that behind him two hooded Sister-Flagellators were applying pain-goads to his back, purging his soul with the blessings of purifying torment. They accompanied him everywhere, day and night, ensuring that his soul was not tainted by impure thoughts.

Justini found Pilate to be a shining example of Imperial Piety, a beacon of self-denial and scarification. The other two men on the podium however were a different matter. To his right stood Confessor E'zard, in fiery orange robes and bearing a smoking brazier on his head. He boasted a black goatee and the eyes of one who enjoyed seeing suffering in others while his mouth seemed fixed in a permanent leer. E'zard was the Cardinal's right-hand man and oft led from the front, bringing righteous fire to the blasphemous. The other man was Inquisitor Luco, of the Ordo Hereticus, who wore silver power armour under black robes. He was Terra's watchdog, sent to ensure the War of Faith was conducted properly, at least in theory. No one knew his true objective and rumour in the Convent was that he had a shadowy Death Cult assassin moving through the corridors of power, picking off anyone who dared question his mission.

Pontius Pilate resumed his speech and Justini lowered her eyes as he said, "Let us give thanks to the God-Emperor for granting us victory in the spoil and pray for Him to grant us our final victory. Blessings be upon you."

"Blessed be," the crowd intoned then the sermon ended.

With that the Cardinal turned and walked off, with his dignitaries in tow. In the marshalling yard the Fraters milled about, awaiting someone to tell them what to do. They passed the time by ritually scarring themselves and beating their chests as they bellowed prayers or daubing their flesh with mud and ash. Here and there ragged men with thick beards climbed twelve-foot poles and perched upon wooden platforms as they screamed visions of horror and rapture over the masses, some using spiked whips to flagellate their own backs as they roared prophecies of doom and glory. Others were reaching into smouldering braziers and picking up iron Aquila tokens, they competed to hold the metal the longest even though they wept as the roasting metal seared their hands. By such acts of devotion did the common masses prove their love for the God-Emperor, and their willingness to endure pain in His name. These Fraters had landed this very day and knew nothing of war, yet they had come from across the sector to fight. Men and women, young and old, rich and poor, they came from all walks of life but they had all heard the call resonating within their hearts. They were willing to lay down their lives for the sake of the Golden Throne, certain that the God-Emperor would judge their souls with favour for their sacrifice.

As the Fraters competed to outdo each other in devotion the Sisters of Battle gathered into their squads, keeping a discreet distance from the filthy masses. Justini longed to return to their Chantry and remove her armour; twelve hours of fighting had left her sore and bruised. However Sister-Superior Karna did not give the order to return to their Chantry-barracks instead saying, "All Sister-Superiors are being called to an urgent briefing with Canoness-Preceptor Phantea, you will remain here and watch over the new Fraters."

The five Sisters bowed as Karna strode away, leaving them with a rare moment of idleness. Sister Praxi sighed loudly and said, "How long must we wait? I can't wait to get my armour off."

Justini replied, "Patience is a virtue Sister."

Praxi snorted, "So is cleanliness and I for one am caked with sweat inside this plate. Good job it is sealed or people in orbit would smell my stench."

Justini could not help but let out a snort of amusement at Praxi's uncouth remark. She looked at Praxi and was reassured to see her Sister was as boisterous as ever. Praxi was a bruiser of a woman and could not have been more different from the dainty waifs that plastered Imperial Propaganda posters. She was large and heavy-set, with a ruddy face and a broad nose, she boasted muscles that put a Catachan Guardsman to shame and how she fit into her svelte amour was a mystery. Her course remarks did not sound like the stereotypical Sister but there was no other one would have at one's side in battle, when the bullets were flying Praxi was in her element.

Across from her another Sister spat with a scowl, "Devotions to the God-Emperor cannot be ignored for petty concerns. His service is our first and only thought; eschew physical comfort, with His grace we could march through a thousand foes without harm." That was Resita, a pious zealot even among an order of fanatical believers. She was whip-cord thin, with a sour face and an extensive Aquila tattoo engulfing her brow. She was shorter than the others but supremely skilled with her weapons, her certain aim had proved the end for many a Heretic.

Justini sighed but another voice countered, "Prayers are our spiritual armour, they protect us in battle, but a loaded boltgun never hurt either." The speaker was Desity, an old Sister, grey-haired and weathered by time. She was long past the age she should have been shipped out to the Orders Hospitaller or Dialogus, but she had refused all attempts to retire her and consistently kept passing the required physical trials. She swore the only way anybody was taking her off the battlefield was in a coffin and such ferocious zeal brought great admiration from all. Desity was the voice of experience in the squad and none could gainsay her gritty wisdom.

Justini nodded at the sage council as she replied, "Indeed, He expects us to be ready to fight at any moment."

But the last Sister commented, "Did you see the foes wither before us? The Heretics fell in droves; they could not stand before our righteousness!"

That was Selosha, a passionate and wild warrior, whose laurels were many indeed. Selosha could have stepped from an Imperial propaganda poster, the image of the perfect and beautiful Sister of Battle. She was long-legged and had golden haired ringlets, with full lips and a small mole on one flawless cheek that looked affected, but wasn't. Under that armour she fitted the contours of her armour perfectly and Justini prayed every night to be forgiven for sinful jealousy that the armour swells over Selosha's bosom were not exaggerations. Justini had taken an instant dislike to Selosha at first sight, but had been won over by her wild exuberance; she embraced their calling with gusto, as she did all aspects of life.

Praxi looked over the milling crowds of Fraters and muttered, "How long do you think this lot will last?"

Justini turned to take in the crowds, fresh from the troopships and replied, "Average life expectancy for a rookie Frater is three days."

Desity growled sullenly, "Martyrdom is all well and good but we've been stuck on this mudball for seven years. We take a few Hive Cities here and there then, the Heretics take them back and all the while we throw lives at them like it's going out of fashion. If the Cardinal had any strategic sense we would have won this war years ago."

"Desity!" Resita gasped in shock, "You can't say things like that about his Excellency!"

Yet Desity retorted, "Girl, I was shooting blasphemers and Traitors when you were still fouling your nappies in the Schola-Progenium, I can say whatever I damn well please!"

As they argued Justini looked up, seeing the vast peak of the Hive Spire looming over them. It was a man-made mountain, covered in steeples and spires. The lower slopes had Commercias, theatres and academic-conservatories, while higher resided Aristocratic mansions, law courts and the famous Aqua gardens. If she squinted Justini could just see the dimple at the very summit that was the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor, the ultimate objective of their war. Over all that glowed the void shield umbrella, the single greatest obstacle to their campaign, for so long as it stood their orbital supremacy meant nothing.

Tethys was the cultural and spiritual heart of the sub-sector, its many shrines and temples places of veneration for thousands of years. The Ecclesiarchy was determined to take it back at all costs but for seven years had been held at bay by the Disciples of Ruin and their leader, the arch-heretic Ferro Corde. Great were the blasphemies wrought by that treasonous Tech-Priest, his legions of disposable hordes and the nightmare Flesh-Golems, the fever-dreams of a diseased and addled mind made real.

Justini thoughts were brought back to the ground as Selosha commented, "Oh look, its selection time."

Justini peered around and saw a gaggle of men in thick robes, moving through the milling Fraters and directing them into groups. The worker habs where they were standing, a mere stone-throw from the spaceport, was the marshalling ground for fresh Fraters but they would not linger long. They would be armed and sent to war this very day, only those few fortunate enough to come back from their first combat assignment would be deemed worthy enough to grant accommodation and food.

Justini saw scarred men in black robes, bearing large placards, calling out for volunteers and she said, "Missionaries, those they choose will be the first into the fray."

Desity muttered, "All they do is shove a lasgun into their hands and point them at the enemy. Nobody they send out will be coming back."

"They will be welcomed into paradise by the God-Emperor," Resita declared with iron certainty.

Yet Justini saw another group of men with shorter robes, bulging muscles and grease-stained hands picking out people in a more careful manner and commented, "Gun-Deacons, they oversee the operators of tanks and artillery."

Praxi commented, "Those souls might last longer, I hear a few artillerymen even make it past six months."

Justini wondered at that yet Resita was excitedly calling, "Look there! The Sanguinary-Prelates!"

Justini looked at where she was pointing and saw a small knot of men in red robes moving serenely through the crowd. The people shrank back from them but every now and again they would pick out an individual from the packed masses, those most scarred and burned by their devotions. Those so chosen would fall to their knees in rapture, only to be led away from their fellows and dressed in red shirts.

"They select the Holy Martyrs," Justini breathed in awe.

"The most blessed of all," Resita exclaimed in wonder, "Those most favoured in the sight of the God-Emperor!"

Justini shared her awe, the Holy Martyrs were the most devoted and blessed of all Fraters, few indeed were so honoured. Yet her admiration was cut short as their vox's crackled and Karna's voice issued forth, "Come in."

Hurriedly Justini answered, "Sister-Superior, we hear you."

Karna briskly announced, "Breaking news, the Heretics are on the move. While we were distracted in the spoil they advanced in the eastern lower-hive and seized the Shrine of Saint Torvald."

Gasps arose and Praxi spat, "The attack in the spoil was an accursed feint. Three months of bloody slog to take that shrine and they seize it back in a day!"

Justini understood her distress, to lose so holy a shrine was unthinkable, it could not be countenanced. Karna's next words showed her agreement, "Canoness-Preceptor Phantea orders an immediate counter-attack. Make ready Sisters, we march at once!"

Around them the Fraters leapt into sudden activity as the various priests shouted instructions. Weapons were grabbed and the packed masses jostled to obey. Meanwhile Justini gripped her bolter tight and said, "Looks like the Fraters will see fighting sooner than they expected. Come Sisters, the God-Emperor calls us to war."


	5. Chapter 5

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 5**

High above the marshalling yards of the Ecclesiarchy, the Hive spire of Tethys was wracked with endless, constant fighting. Down its flanks and through its maze-like passageways men grappled and tore at each other with furious abandon. Las and shell, fire and smoke, teeth and claw, all contributed to the carnage as both sides struggled for supremacy. Sometimes one side would rush forward and seize vast tracks of ground, but in doing so weaken other forces and lose territory elsewhere and be forced to stop their advance. Thus had it been for years and today was no exception.

Blood and death were everywhere, half-naked Fraters throwing themselves at the Heretical foe with wild abandon. They fought with the butts of las-rifles and lumbering tanks, thrown into the fray with little regard for tactics and strategy. The Disciples of Ruin met them with eclectic forces, sometimes drug-addled hordes, sometimes deadly crossfires and cunning manoeuvres and sometimes with nightmarish fusions of flesh and metal. There was no telling what one would face when confronting them and yet in that bedlam something most peculiar moved, something unlike anything else.

The screaming Fraters were brought up short when a towering giant emerged from nowhere. He was huge, bigger than any man had a right to be and clad head to toe in layered ceramite plate. His armour was purest black, yet he bore strange markings, unlike any Chaos emblems seen on this world. In his hands was a massive two-handed broadsword of black meteoric iron, wrought from sciences forgotten in this lesser age, which he wielded with perfect skill and grace. His head was covered in a cowl, that fell over his shoulders but no further, perhaps once it had been long robes but if so they had long ago been burnt and cut shorter. Now the cowl served only to cast his pale features into shadow. His name was Christof and he was laying waste to all before him.

A half-dozen Fraters saw the giant mowing down their comrades and ran at him, swinging their lasguns wildly as they screamed with righteous fury. Christof's lips peeled back over his iron teeth and he raised his sword vertically before his eyes in salute. A heartbeat later he was in motion, meeting the first Frater with a rising slash. His blade, the Sword of Solitude, flared as its power field made contact and the man parted from hip to shoulder, bisected neatly in twain. The rest of the Fraters threw themselves into the fray, hacking and clubbing at the venerable Mark II Crusade pattern armour. Yet Christof was already in motion, his feet taking him elegantly along the ritual patterns of the spiral. He danced through their blows, suffering no serious harm and all the while his sword was blurring as he struck back. Heads parted from necks, arms were severed at the shoulder and hearts were pierced as Christof effortlessly reduced five men to bleeding corpses.

Christof stepped back in satisfaction of his handiwork and took in the scene, all around him war raged with shocking fury and bloodshed. They fought deep within the confines of the upper hive, the former abode of the rich and powerful, just shy of the actual summit. This district had once been given over to law courts, the famed centres of adjudication and birthplace of legal precedents for an entire sub-sector, all carried out under an arched dome built into the structure of Tethys Hive, nearly a mile wide. Now it was merely another battlefield. Courtrooms had become shattered bunkers, prisoner stockades mere cover and statues of giants scales, hourglasses and blind woman were so bullet-poked as to be nearly unrecognisable.

Christof assayed the lines of battle and was satisfied the Disciples of Ruin were making good progress but he noted a large tank spinning on its treads, bringing its weapons to bear on him. It was a Malcador pattern super-heavy, a design considered obsolete even before the Horus Heresy. That the Imperials were utilising such archaic fossils spoke volumes about the quality of the foe he faced here. Christof prepared to meet it as the turret battle cannon tried to track him. The Malcador pattern featured a limited traverse turret, a serious design flaw, and Christof took full advantage of that to sprint to the left, keeping out of its line of fire with the astonishing speed of the Transhuman. The driver was caught off guard and failed to turn after him, a shame for the Malcador's main advantage was speed. Whoever had assigned that incompetent man was himself a blithering idiot, but then in Christof's opinion only a fool would drag a tank all the way up to the Upper Hive.

The tank's commander seemed to be frustrated by the warrior's swift redeployment and fired his cannon prematurely, sending a shell flying wide of his shoulder to impact a prisoner block behind him. The cube-like building collapsed in a fiery detonation but Christof grinned to himself, the foe had wasted their most important shot. He swiftly changed direction and approached from the side. The sponson Heavy-bolter tried to shoot him but it too was limited in its arc and it could not target him.

One slice from the Sword of Solitude shattered the track-links and the tank ground to a halt, then Christof held his blade level and thrust it into the armoured hide. Layers of metal and reinforced plate proved no match for the power of a Heavenfall blade and he plunged it up to the hilt in the tank's hull. He drew it back with the screech of metal on metal, leaving a rent in the side of the tank then he drew a Frag grenade from his belt and shoved it into the hole, to drop within. Christof didn't bother to watch the result, turning his back and walking away, even as the crump of the detonation heralded the crew's doom.

Christof lowered his blade and voxed, "Brothers, report."

A deep and transhuman voice came back saying, "Sar Christof, the enemy is broken and routed."

"Good work Sar Gwayne," Christof answered, "Establish heavy-weapon teams to hold this ground and then regroup with me."

"Understood," Gwayne replied.

Then Chistof called, "Sar Rauf, report."

"I told you not to call me that, I'm no Sar," an even deeper voice snarled, "And since you ask I've finished securing the flanks."

Christof replied smoothly, "Then come find me."

Christof settled back to wait, confident there were no more enemies nearby. He spent a moment checking his blade and was satisfied it had not been nicked, then he sheathed it and settled in to wait. After a few minutes two more Transhumans came into view, jogging past the burnt out courtrooms and plazas of justice. Like him they were clad in black Mark II armour, adorned with eldritch marks and honours. They wore blunt-faced helms but removed them as they closed, revealing pale and harrowed features.

Christof let them close then called out, "The justice district is secured."

"Quickly," one with a surprisingly young face declared, "We must advance, if we push on we can take the theatre district, the Commercia and Victory square!"

"Don't be foolish Gwayne," the other one, with grizzled and ancient features, snarled, "If we overextend we risk all we have gained."

"Rauf has the way of it," Christof concurred, "Signal the Disciples to dig in and prepare for a counter-attack."

"But the entire upper hive could be ours!" Gwayne protested.

Christof fixed him with a glare and uttered, "Not ours, remember that. We are not part of the Disciples, we merely work for them. Ferro Corde is paying us well to prosecute his war, that is the extent of our arrangement."

Gwayne sighed and opened his vox to spread the order but Rauf muttered, "Damn Ferro Corde, never to be seen at the front, always locked away in the Golem Founderies tinkering with some contraption or other."

Christof cocked his head and commented, "He does pay well."

Rauf scowl lifted as he hefted a Phobos pattern bolter and conceeded, "Aye, I have missed supply lines. It's good to have a full clip and my armour repaired properly."

Rauf eye's assumed an avaricious gleam but their conversation was interrupted when a Disciple of Ruin trundled towards them. This was must have been high-ranked, one of the corrupted tech-priest acolytes of the Heretic Magos, for he trundled along on two tracked feet with a black cloak covering his bulky body. The acolyte ground to a halt and squawked through a vox-caster, "Ferro Corde demands to know the reason for this halt."

Christof replied dismissively, "Because I ordered it."

The nameless acolyte screeched, "This does not fit our calculations, the Numbers of Ruin demand we advance!"

Christof didn't sound concerned as he replied, "We shall hold here, bring up the slaves and make ready to repel a counter-attack. Sweep for survivors and have them taken to the Golem-Foundry, then have reserve forces mass in the dock slums below the spire, we attack in one hour."

The Acolyte barked, "What is the reason for this delay?!"

Christof grew irritated and loomed over the wretch as he growled, "There is no delay, that is the time that I have decided."

The Acolyte thought better of protesting and scurried away on his tracks. The trio watched him scurry away then Gwayne said, "I'm surprised you didn't kill him."

"I'm not being paid to kill the likes of him," Christof replied, "We stick to the deal."

Rauf looked concerned as he said, "It doesn't bother you, fighting for Chaos?"

Christof shook his head and said, "Chaos, Imperials… they're all the same, some days I can't tell the difference. All that matters is who is paying us and who is not."

Rauf sighed sadly, "The Emperor would weep if he could see what has become of his Imperium."

"Who cares about him," Gwayne snarled, "He turned his back on us, we owe him nothing."

The trio settled back and watched as the Disciples of Ruin brought up reinforcements, various black-clad tech-priests directing masses of filthy wretches to drag heavy-weapons into position. The slaves worked without complaint, wearing their control collars and dopey expressions. Those collars were crude devices, riveted into the bones themselves, but they were surprisingly effective. They drip-fed Kalma doses into the body, making the slaves so docile and obedient that they barely reacted to anything, not even when the brands of Chaos were forced upon them. Yet with the flick of a remote switch they could flood the body with Frenzon and Slaught, turning the slaves into furious berserkers.

A few of the slaves were mutants taken from the slums of the Hive Cities, a few more were idiots who thought joining the Disciples would lead them to glory but by far the vast majority were captured Fraters, the wounded and injured dragged off the battlefield. That thought made Christof chuckle, the Imperials thought they were facing Heretics upon the field but the truth was that their foe was largely made up of their own men. In their ignorance they kept throwing bodies into the meatgrinder, unknowingly fuelling the very machine of war they sought to drag down. The true Disciples of Ruin were the renegade tech-priests who ruled over them, from the humble slave-overseers to the dark acolytes who laboured on the greatest of their creations. It was a delicious irony, and the slaves were only the most simple and mass-produced of creations to come out of the mind of Ferro Corde.

"What's so funny?" Rauf asked.

Christof chuckled, "Merely enjoying the idea of Imperials fighting Imperials."

Rauf grinned as he said, "Aye, that never gets old."

Gwayne muttered, "If only they knew how to use them properly."

"Then Ferro Corde wouldn't need us," Rauf commented, "The Disciples of Ruin make interesting devices but they haven't a clue how to prosecute a war."

Yet Christof was distracted as his vox squawked in his ear. He listened to the reports then declared, "The Imperials are massing in the lower-east Hive, they are preparing to launch an assault upon the Shrine of Saint Torvald."

The other two smirked knowingly as Gwayne said, "You were right, they couldn't resist the bait."

"Predictable as ever," Rauf concurred, "They waste all their time and blood, fighting for worthless temples and fanes."

Christof stated, "Exactly where we want them to be."

Rauf waited a moment then said, "So while the Imperials are dying for a worthless fane, what do we do?"

Christof set off at a brisk walk back the way they had come as he declared, "We are going to take the reserves and claim the Deep Core Mines in the west. If the Imperials want the shrine so badly they can have it, but let's not make it too easy for them. I am going to dispatch a cohort of Flesh-Golems to intercept their attack, that should keep them busy for a while."


	6. Chapter 6

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 6**

Screaming fanatics led the charge, racing into the gloom of the lower hive with prayers on their lips and fists raised in fury. The Fraters barrelled forward in a wave of fanaticism and righteous zeal, led by black-clad missionaries, all running as fast as they could along the arterial passageway. Behind them rolled heavy armoured units, squat and cumbersome machines of war, these were far more precious and so they trundled behind the tide of men and women, using them as human shields.

They were met by torrents of incoming fire as dug-in heavy weapon teams let fly. Heavy-bolters fired from scraps of cover and Autocannons chugged as they spat shells into the screaming wall of zealots. Flurries of rounds mowed down Fraters with ease but they pressed on with Missionaries bellowing catechisms of sacrifice and blessed martyrdom. The civilian volunteers tripped on fallen bodies and their feet slipped in the wet pools of blood and now the true test began, some of them screamed their devotion as they charged into the fray, seeking their doom. Yet some among them had never seen the truth of war and the horror of it snapped them out of their mania. They fell down and threw up their guts as the violence and the noise and the smell of battle hit them, their faith proving brittle indeed when put to the test. Unfortunately the incoming fire cared not, it mowed them down regardless, hero or coward, zealot or faithless all were fodder for the guns and there was always another rank behind them to take their place.

From among the crowd tanks burped shells, blowing apart the heavy-emplacements as they revealed themselves, but then concealed Lascannons would stab out, blasting the tanks apart one by one. The Imperials were paying with blood for every metre they advanced, yet they were advancing, pressing forward heedless of loss. Many thousands had already fallen but there were endless multitudes pressing up from behind, rolling over the defences with sheer numbers.

The noise and the violence of the battle were shocking, making the soul quiver with denial but among that madness Justini and her squad ran fearlessly, moving up the flanks of the advance. The Sisters of Battle were the rapid response element to this assault, moving to eliminate threats as they emerged. She could see squads of Dominions and Retributors exchanging fire with dug-in Heretics, while Seraphims flew overhead on wings of fire, bolt pistols spewing death.

Justini breathed a sigh of awe at her Sister's angelic grace but then looked ahead, seeing the road stretch on before them into darkness. This was a main arterial passageway through the lower hive, the road to the Shrine of Saint Torvald. It was wide enough for a hundred souls to march in lockstep and high enough for a Warlord Titan to march along. Unfortunately it was also littered with debris, burnt out wrecks of transports and war machines, both sides having warred here over the years and left their mark. Regrettably that left plenty of cover for the Heretics to lay ambushes within.

Justini was snapped from her musings as a Lascannon blast emerged from before them, shooting out of the burnt wreckage of an Imperial Knight. It shot deep into the crowd of Fraters, trying to hit one of their tanks but was blocked by the packed ranks of bodies in the way. Sister-Superior Karna cried, "Quickly my sisters, flank and attack!"

Justini reacted instantly, leaping forward with great bounds of her power armoured legs. She veered right as the squad scattered and found herself by the Knight's shoulder. She took her bolter one handed and gripped a broken panel then heaved herself up onto its carapace to look into the wedge of the Knight's armpit. She found herself standing right above the gun-nest, where a pair of Heretics were labouring to reload the Lascannon. Without thought she leapt from her perch and thumped to the ground right behind them, making a dull thud as she did so. To her surprise the Heretics did not react, merely continuing to work the Lascannon with slack-jawed monotony. This happened sometimes, the Disciples occasionally came at them as raging berserkers but other times they had all the heart and soul of servitors. It made no difference though, Justini shot them both anyway and they fell in sprays of blood and metal as the bolt-rounds sundered their bodies and broke their collars.

The rest of the squad joined her a heartbeat later and Sister Selosha called, "I wanted that kill!"

Testily Karna snapped, "Covet ye not individual glory, the success of the squad is all. Secure this position, the Fraters are moving up again."

Crisply the Squad obeyed, spreading out to check for other concealed foes as the Frater streamed by. Justini stepped towards the Knight's legs as her autosenses scoured the area, providing a wealth of targeting data but she found no threats. She looked at the heraldry and recognised the marks of House Hawkshroud, a Knight force that had been with the War of Faith at its beginning but retired with great acrimony and bitter words a few years before Justini and the rest of the squad had been dispatched to fight in this Preceptory. However Resita paused for a moment and prodded one of the corpses with her boot as she muttered, "This one had an Aquila tattoo."

"So?" Justini inquired.

"He was a faithless Traitor," Resita declared, "How could any man sink so low? Better to die for the God-Emperor than live for yourself."

Justini lowered her head at the sage counsel but suddenly Karna emerged, running back towards them as she called, "Beware, incoming! We've lost contact with a Serpahim squad, but their last call was that Flesh-Golems are coming this way!"

Justini's heart fluttered in her chest at the announcement, the idea of facing those nightmarish constructs seizing her with dread. A trickle of ice ran down her spine and she stammered, "Not a… not a Psyren?"

"Unknown," Karna snapped, "Canoness-Preceptor Phantea orders all squads to get into concealed positions, we will catch them in the flank."

Instantly the squad obeyed, hunkering down with their bolters protruding only so slightly. Justini ducked behind the Knight's leg and fought to keep her hands steady as she tried not to think about what was coming down that passageway. It could be anything, the litany of horrors was vast, Spyders, Hell-Geists, Mortis-Wyrms, even the most feared and dreaded of all: the Psyrens. Few had survived an encounter with those fell abominations and those who had were reduced to raving lunatics, forever locked into padded cells to howl madly for the rest of their lives.

Justini forced herself not to think about it by reciting her prayers, "Oh blessed God-Emperor, may you look upon your servant with favour. Grant her the strength to smite your foes, armour her body so the foe may not taste her blood and should she fall may you grant her forgiveness for her sins and take her unto your side."

The ritual words calmed her nerves and her hands stopped shaking. A sense of peace settled over her soul and she felt the blessed touch of the God-Emperor upon her. It was a moment of serenity, yet a moment later Karna yelled, "Buzz-wings!"

Justini's helm rose up and she beheld a cloud of small darting shapes hurtling along just under the roof. They were rounded skulls in shape, with four insectile wings protruding from the sides that blurred as they flew nearer and under their jaws hung compact las-rifles with an expanded powercell. At first glance they resembled servo skulls, the heads of worthy Imperials allowed to serve on after death. Yet these were far more macabre, for what made the guts churn in visceral horror was that the fact that they were still alive and pleading for help.

The Buzz-wings blitzed over the Fraters and their las-rifles began spitting shots down into the packed masses. Men and women fell as the tiny horrors darted back and forth, but all the while the Buzz-wings wept and cried and implored those below for help. Even over the noise of battle Justini could hear them, hear the entreaties for help spilling from their lips and a glut of vomit tried to force its way up her throat as she heard one of them calling, "Kill me! For throne's sake please kill me!"

Suddenly Karna yelled, "Open fire!"

The squad obeyed instantly, snapping off rounds at the darting creatures as they jerked and weaved through the air. Justini forced the vomit back down into her stomach as she lined up her weapon upon a flittering Buzz-wing and pulled the trigger. The bolter spat forth a single round, but to her frustration it missed and went sailing away into the distance.

"Lead your targets!" Resita shouted as she shot down three in succession.

"I'm trying!" Justini snapped but she adjusted her aim an inch to the left and this time managed to blast one of the disgusting horrors out of the air.

The Buzz-wings zoomed back and forth, mowing down helpless Fraters but the torrent of returning shots cut the air into a net of deadly crossfires and swiftly the cloud of horrors was cut down. Yet they had served their purpose to distract the Imperials. Justini's head snapped back as she heard a roar of mechanical clattering and bestial screaming echoing down the arterial route. Her jaw dropped as she beheld a horde of nightmarish fusions of man and machine barrelling towards the Imperials, each one a unique travesty of form and function.

Bodies of multiple people had been sown together into ungainly lumps, then machinery had been bolted to them. Heads and arms and legs stuck out at random angles while cancerous growths bulged all over them. They trundled along on large wheels or tracked units or hundreds of stilt-like legs, which moved like a centipede underneath them. Before them mechanical arms waved about, tipped with spinning buzzsaw blades or thrashing flails. No two of them were alike but collectively they were known as Man-Mowers.

Between them bounded smaller creations, but in no way less horrific. They were formed from a single body but their legs had been replaced with back-jointed piston-legs that let them leap forward in great bursts. Their arms had been replaced with autocannon and munition feeds and armour plate had been bolted to their ribs. Yet the worst thing about them was that they had no faces. Instead there was a vast gaping maw, taking up the entire front of the skull, ringed with long fangs. They had no eyes or ears yet they seemed to know where their prey was and they loped forward, eager to taste human flesh. They were the Hell-Geists.

Justini looked upon the Flesh-Golems and felt her sanity rocked by visceral disgust, their sickening appearance making her want to curl up into a ball and pretend that reality could not contain such madness. Revulsion welled up within her but she did not allow it to rule her heart. She was a Sister of Battle, sworn to the God-Emperor's service and her faith was her shield. His grace protected her, His love surrounded her and she lived in the sure and certain knowledge that the blandishments of the arch-enemy would find no purchase upon her soul.

Then the abominations hit the first rank of Fraters and the people fell before them in sprays of gore. Flesh, skin and bone were ripped to shreds as the Man-Mowers ploughed into their ranks, scything down human beings as effortlessly as a threshing machine would wheat. The Hell-Geists followed, blasting any survivors with solid shot, then stooping to feast on the remains. The Fraters could do nothing against that assault, their pathetic lasguns powerless set against the heavy mounds of fused meat and metal. The Fraters turned to run, or fell to their knees in prayer or threw themselves forward but the blades obliterated them all regardless. The advance of the Imperials was brought to a screeching halt as the Fraters wailed aloud for salvation but that at moment Karna and shouted, "For the God-Emperor, attack!"

The Sisters leapt from their concealment ran at the Flesh-Golems, weapons blazing from the hip. Justini saw a Man-mower, with a paddle-wheel arrangement of blades fitted to its front, carving a path through the screaming Fraters and turned her weapon upon it. She fired a tight burst of rounds and cheered as she saw one of the heads sticking out of its side blown off, but the monstrosity seemed oblivious to the damage. Then they closed into melee range and the battle was truly joined.


	7. Chapter 7

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 7**

The Flesh-Golem loomed over her, swollen with bulbous protrusions and random limbs. Its mechanical arms flailed about, each tipped with a wicked scythe or spinning buzzsaw, tearing at anybody nearby. It travelled on two wide caterpillar tracks and its front bore a spinning series of blades like a threshing machine. The sight of it was nauseating and the noise it made was a cross of bestial screams and a broken machine, whose parts were grinding against themselves.

Justini's heart cried out in protest at facing such an unholy abomination, a small part of her wanted to run away and never look back but she refused to give in. Her devotion and her faith demanded that she stand and fight and everything she had ever known told her that the sight of the God-Emperor was upon her. He was watching over her, now and always, what could she possibly have to fear when she walked under the blessed protection of the Master of Mankind.

Justini forced her trepidation aside and switched her bolter to rapid-fire, she gripped it firmly and then swung wide as she pulled the trigger. A spray of mass-reactive rounds shot forth and peppered the side of the Man-mower, punching deeply within its flank. A second later they detonated, blowing gaping craters into its puffy side that oozed a turgid mixture of blood and oil. Justini wanted to cheer at the sight but the Flesh-Golem was far from dead. A mechanical arm lunged at her, tipped with a spinning buzzsaw blade and Justini's eyes widened in shock as it hurtled right at her face. She saw her death loom yet at the same instant something crashed into her side, throwing her out of the way. Justini stumbled as she heard the unmistakable sound of Ceramite cracking and looked back in confusion. Beside her Selosha was staggering backwards, her left shoulder plate cracked and falling off her armour in bits.

"Selosha!" Justini shouted in concern.

Yet her Sister ripped the damaged plate off and snarled, "It merely winged me."

"You saved me," Justini gasped.

"No time for that, get back into the damned fight!" Selosha barked as she hefted her dashed aside and resumed firing.

Justini shook off the momentary shock and copied her Sister, letting off bursts of fire as she ran. The squad now surrounded the monstrosity on all sides, harrowing it with lashes of fire. Blood was running freely from its bulk but that did not seem to slow it down in the least. It wailed and screamed as it tried to hit the Sisters, swinging wildly and turning upon its tracks as it tried to catch them in its spinning front blades. Justini saw another arm swing laterally at her but this time she ducked and the buzzsaw passed harmlessly over her head. The crowd of Fraters pressing in around them were not so lucky, for the arm plunged into their ranks, tearing three of them apart in showers of rich red blood. Justini shut out their wails of distress and focused on bring this mobile blasphemy to an end, but her weapons were making little impression. The Sisters were stinging it, blowing off chunks of flesh and metal, but it was so heavily built that it would take hours for them to whittle it down.

Justini raised her voice and cried, "We're not doing enough damage!"

Praxi shouted back from the other side, "We need Dominions with Melta weapons!"

"No!" Karna bellowed, "Have faith Sisters, He will show us the way!"

The Sister-superior matched deeds to words and darted between two flailing arms, bringing her chainsword down in an overhead sweep. The whirling blades met the tainted skin and bone and tore it asunder, spraying black blood in all directions. The Flesh-Golem screamed as its hide was violated, ripped apart by the blessed weapon, it thrashed and flailed about but could not reach Karna, so close was she. The Sister-superior held on grimly, dragging her chainsword downward with all her power-assisted strength, leaving behind a vast rent, within which pulsed black-vein organs and clicking devices. Then Karna threw herself backwards, barely avoiding a hooked claw as she shouted, "Phosper grenades!"

Justini and the others reacted instantly, hands falling to their hip and pulling bulky canisters free. Hundreds of hours of practice in their Chantry's shooting range made it instinctive for them to flip the pin off and hurl the grenades above the Flesh-Golem. Almost simultaneously the grenades detonated, spraying burning Phosper all over the Man-mower, covering every inch of it in flames. The monstrosity screamed as cleansing fire touched its filthy hide, it shuddered and bucked hard, tearing at its own hide with its arms as it tried to put out the inferno but nothing could stop the sacred conflagration. Liquid fire ran down its sides, charring skin to ash and pouring into the rent in its flank. Black organs boiled, swelling obscenely until they burst and complicated mechanisms melted and still the flames raged on.

The Man-mower let out one last scream of denial then it flopped limply, its arms dropping to the ground and its tracks ceasing to turn. Justini let out a sigh of relief but there was no time for congratulations, they had only defeated one of the Flesh-Golems, there were dozens more to bring down yet. Justini spun on her heel, to see how the rest of the battle was faring and beheld a scene of bedlam. Everywhere men and women grappled with the Flesh-Golems, fighting nightmares brought to life with nothing but rifles. The Man-mowers were ploughing through the Fraters, leaving trails of broken and bleeding bodies behind them. Meanwhile the Hell-Geists were bounding from spot to spot, blasting away with their guns or tearing bodies apart with their great teeth and over head Buzz-wings flittered about, raining down fire indiscriminately. The carnage was terrifying and yet the Flesh-Golems weren't having it all their own way. Flashes of black-armour showed the Sisters of battle were fighting back, meeting the blasphemies head-on.

Justini saw a squad of Dominions confronting a Man-mower, their melta weapons streaming rays of fusion fire that made flesh and metal run like water. They marched forward in lock-step, venting their fury until the Man-mower at last fell still and silent. Elsewhere a squad of Seraphim's flew overhead, blasting their bolt pistols at a pair of Hell-Geists. Returning shots punched one of them out of the sky but the others soared on, ripping the horrors apart with concentrated streams of fire. On the far flank, a Man-mower was tearing through a gaggle of screaming Fraters but a Macharius heavy-tank turned its twin barrels upon it and let loose hell. Two huge explosions engulfed the Flesh-Golem, turning it into a fountain of metal and blood so tall that it painted the roof red. True, a score of Fraters was also killed in the explosion, but the tank's drivers had been trained not to consider trifling things like collateral damage.

The violence and the noise of the battle were stunning, fierce enough to stop hearts and burst ears and it was too much for the common man to bear. The Flesh-golems had wrecked carnage and the revulsion caused by their forms made courage brittle. The balance of the fighting teetered for a moment but then the Fraters broke, their courage failing in the face of Chaos. First one man, then a few more then suddenly they all turned and ran from the field, streaming past the static tanks, even as the missionaries hurled curses upon their souls.

Justini's heart fell as she realised the Imperial assault had failed, but then she saw that not all had broken. Charging through the retreating hordes came a wedge of radiant warriors, with their heads held high and cries of piety upon their lips. At their head raced a woman in white armour and a black cloak. Her plate was festooned with purity seals, icons of devotion and enamel roses while a thurible hung from a chain from her waist. Her helm was crested with a free-standing fleur-de-lis and in her hands she carried a long power sword that shone with golden lightning. It was Cannoness-Preceptor Phantea and she strode to war without a moment's hesitation.

By her side strode a man, he was wearing long brown vestments and upon his head was a smoking brazier. He was unarmoured yet any stray shots that came near him rebounded away with bursts of light as a sacred Rosarius enveloped him in a conversion field. It was Confessor E'zard and he bore aloft a long staff, topped with brilliant flames. Behind them came a horde of half-naked women, clad in rags that obscured their faces. Their skin was cut by many lashes and in their hands they bore ceremonial eviscerators. They were the Sisters Repentia, those who had transgressed the stringent rules of the Adepta Sororitas and been condemned to seek absolution in battle. Together the Holy leaders threw themselves at the blasphemous creations of the enemy, tearing into them with faith and fury.

Justini watched in awe as the Sisters Repentia threw themselves at a Man-mower, a dozen women were torn to shreds in the first moment but the rest piled in, ripping terrible wounds into its thick hide even as it lashed out frantically. It squealed and roared in outrage but was covered in shrieking Sisters and was unable to kill them fast enough as the Sisters smote it with righteous vigour, dicing it to pieces with great sweeps of their Eviscerators. Another Man-mower was set upon by E'zard who lowered his blazing staff and roared, "Your doom is upon you!" A shining ray of energy shot forth from the basket of flames, stabbing deeply into the Flesh-golem. The staff contained an archeo-tech inferno pistol and the ancient relic weapon within smote the monstrosity with deadly power.

Meanwhile Phantea was confronted by a bounding Hell-Geist; it came towards her with autocannon blazing and its jaws wide open. Fat rounds glanced off her venerable plate, leaving grooves in the ceramite armour, but the woman underneath was unhurt. She drew back her sword and held utterly still as it closed then with one perfectly timed thrust drove the point through its mouth and out the other side, skewering the Hell-Geist upon the length of her sword. The wretched thing came to a screeching halt, locked into immobility, then it keeled over and slipped off the point of her sword, leaving Phantea free to seek out another enemy.

Justini felt her heart soaring at the sight and she heard Karna yell, "The Canoness is with us, charge!" As one the squad leapt into action, pressing forward with bolters blazing. They added their firepower to the onslaught, blasting apart anything that came their way. Justini saw a Hell-Geist turning its gun towards them and threw herself to one side. Screaming rounds flew past her but one clipped her side, she staggered, feeling the wind knocked out of her as her armour wailed alarms in her helm. She was winded but pure muscle-memory guided her hands as she lifted her bolter and let loose with everything she had.

A torrent of rounds smashed into the Hell-Geist, making it stagger as chunks of meat and metal were blown off it. Then the rest of the squad joined her and hosed it with firepower, chewing it apart with merciless ferocity. Justini's bolter clunked dry but the Hell-Geist was already toppling over, its body reduced to a smear of bloody meat. Justini hurriedly reloaded and looked for another target and as she did so the scope of the battle became clear.

The Canoness-Preceptor had stalled the advance of the Flesh-Golems, but they were heavily outnumbered and outclassed. The Sister's Repentia were falling in droves, their unarmoured forms no match for the vile blasphemies of the enemy and from behind the tanks fired as fast as they could, but their crews were panicking and the shells went too high or too long, missing entirely. Other Sororitas squads were fighting hard, but they were scattered and unable to come together in the madness of the melee. For a moment Justini's mind reeled with the thought that they could not hold the line, that the Flesh-Golems would win through.

Yet even as the thought formed there was a terrific roar from behind and before she knew what was happening hundreds of men and women were streaming past her. It was the Frater Militia, they had seen the shining charge of their Holy leaders and been inspired by it, rallying together as their courage was reforged. They came back to the fray with all of their ardour, desperate to redeem themselves for their earlier cowardice. They ran at the abominations of Chaos with lasguns flashing, throwing themselves without fear or doubt into the face of death. Now it was the Flesh-Golems who were outnumbered and they disappeared under a wave of human bodies, drowning in the tide of pious zealots.

Karna shrieked ecstatically, "Witness the power of faith! Follow me Sisters and sing so the God-Emperor can hear your victory!"

Justini's heart soared and she joined her squad in worship, even as they threw themselves into the fray once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 8**

Bodies littered their route, thousands of corpses left behind them on the roadway, left to rot where they fell, for there was no time to stop. Tens of thousands more Fraters were piling up the roadway and the trundling tanks could not stop. So the dead were kicked aside or crushed under rumbling treads, their sacrifices quickly forgotten. The Imperials had overwhelmed the Flesh-Golems with raw fervour and blind zeal, tearing them apart one by one. Yet they had continued to fight, reaping a fearful tally in defeat. It had cost many lives to end their blasphemous existence but the faithful had been willing to pay the price, giving their lives willingly to redeem their earlier cowardice. At last the advance had resumed, returning to the repetitive pattern of ambush and counter-attack. The Heretics had made the Imperials pay in blood for their advance but buoyed up by victory the Fraters were undaunted and swept on. They were giddy with the thrill of their triumph and their hymns took on joyous notes as they climbed through the Hive city. The end was near, they could taste it and the rush made the occasional gun nest seem a paltry nuisance.

Justini and her squad were marching near to the front, heads held high and weapons gripped tightly. They had fought hard; all the Sisters had and they were eager to end this battle. Yet Justini was also utterly weary, her legs were jelly and her heart thudded loudly within her chest. Her head was swimming and her vision kept blurring, if it weren't for her armour she suspected she would have keeled over already. She was coming down off the rush of combat, the sudden energy draining out of her and, no matter what the tales told, the strength of adrenaline had its limits. The Sisters of Battle were at peak physical condition, but they remained only human and she had couldn't remember the last time she had properly rested. Between this forced march and the fighting in the Spoil, her squad had been in combat for days and the toll was wearing at her.

Justini felt the road beginning to level out beneath her feet and prayed that they had at last reached the level of the shrine. She swept her autosenses over the route ahead, looking for their destination. Before them the road split in twain, one branch continuing to climb ever higher into the Hive spire, the other veering left and fading into darkness. Before that opening flittered a swarm of Buzz-wings, dancing about in random patterns.

Ahead of them Confessor E'zard held up his flaming staff and cried, "Hold!" There was a certain amount of jostling and confusion as the ranks of Fraters behind piled up, the word passing slowly backwards as the civilians bleated in confusion. Justini ignored the pile-up of bodies as Canoness-Preceptor waved her sword and called, "Sisters, clear the way!" The Sororitas squads hefted their weapons and marched forward, preparing to swat the annoying creatures from the air. The Buzz-wings spotted them and began to spit las-fire at the Sisters but their blessed plate was proof against light arms and the shots pattered harmlessly off their plate. In return bolt-rounds swatted them down, blasting the chattering heads with casual disdain. Justini targeted one that had an old man's face and was pleading, "It's not me, I am not the one doing this! I am Emperor-fearing man!" Justini ignored its lies and coolly adjusted her aim, then fired a round that blew it to pieces and the rest of its kind soon followed suit.

With the way open Phantea commanded, "Jarisa's squad, scout ahead." Another squad dashed into the darkness of the tunnel as Karna called her own squad together and said, "Check your gear and ammo."

Justini hastily checked her armour and found it was battered but unviolated; her ammo count was more worrying. One clip remaining, she could only pray that they would not face a prolonged firefight. She leaned over to Praxi and asked, "Got any spare clips?"

Praxi's armoured helm shook as she replied, "Down to my last half-clip myself and my plate yearns for the touch of the armourers, we need to return to the Chantry-barracks."

"I know what you mean," Justini agreed, "The order's prescriptions on combat rotations are clear, we are long overdue for relief."

Surprisingly Resita chimed in, "Indeed, with all this fighting we are falling short of our spiritual duties, these quick battle-field prayers aren't the same as a proper sermon in a consecrated chapel."

Selosha snorted in amusement, "I don't think that's what they meant, personally, I long for a shower."

Justini chuckled at Resita's squawk of protest but then she spied the returning squad and attuned her autosenses to hear them call, "Canoness, the way to the shrine is guarded. Spyders lurk before the entrance, three of them!" A tight knot of alarm clenched Justini's throat but she forced it down. Spyders were heavy-hitters, the equivalent of tanks among the Flesh-Golems, but they were far from the worst of that infernal breed. At least it wasn't a Psyren, she told herself.

Yet Canoness-Preceptor Phantea sounded utterly unflappable as she declared, "We will need to bring the tanks forward and launch an armoured thrust with Dominion squads supporting."

It was a sound plan, yet Confessor E'zard disagreed, "That risks too much random destruction, all those shells flying everywhere, the Shrine of Saint Torvald might be damaged in the crossfire."

Justini bristled at the presumption of her Canoness being overridden, but there was nothing to be done, the Adepta Sororitas was subservient to the priesthood of the Ecclesiarchy. The Sisters were free to organise their tactics as they saw fit but wider strategy and objectives were laid down by the potentates of the Imperial Faith, if E'zard said the shrine had to be taken undamaged then it must be so. Phantea sounded vexed as she inquired, "What would you suggest: send the Fraters in first and use them to soak up the enemy's fire?"

"It would preserve the shrine," E'zard mused but then he grinned smugly and said, "But no, I think it is time to unleash the Holy Martyrs."

Whispers of surprise spread and Justini found herself shocked, that was actually a tactically viable idea. She hadn't expected him to say such a thing, but Phantea was already nodding and commanded, "Sanguinary-Prelates, bring forth your charges!"

The crowds of Fraters stirred behind them as something forced its way out of the packed ranks. People parted as a procession of red-clad priests marched forward, carrying heavy chests and intoning solemn chants as they moved with dignified grace. Behind them came two-score men and women, all wearing new red shirts. Their heads had been shaved bald and anointed with sacred oils and they walked with faces lowered in prayer. The crowd parted in awe as they walked by and many Fraters whispered to them, "Blessings be upon you. Walk in His grace. Eternal glory awaits you."

Justini stepped aside as the red priests led the procession to the edge of the darkness, then they stopped and turned about. The red-clad men and women stood silently before them as the chests they carried were opened to reveal heavy jackets, weighed down with bulky attachments. These were placed upon the row of red-shirted people and locked with many clasps. Confessor E'zard faced them and pronounced, "It is written that one's place in the afterlife shall be judged in accordance with the deeds committed in life. Today you earn a seat at the highest of feast tables; you shall sit by His side and bathe in His radiance."

A fervent gleam entered the eyes of the Martyrs and Phantea declared, "Into the darkness we shall carry His light. Forward march!" With that the Sisters and the Holy Martyrs strode into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving the Fraters behind. Justini's autosenses easily penetrated the gloom and described a long passageway, somewhat smaller than the main arterial route. The illumination had failed here but thankfully the route was straight and unencumbered by debris, so they made swift progress.

Soon they reached the end and the tunnel widened to reveal a wide atrium, with a sloped armourglass roof. Beyond that window the steep sides of the Hive City descended, falling away in fits and starts as spires and pinnacles broke up the smooth flanks of the spire. She could see for miles and miles, out beyond the slums of the surrounding city, past the city wall and the industrial mines beyond, all the way to the frothing brine of the Aquenta Ocean, whose salty shores Tethy's Hive rested upon.

Closer than that lay the foundations of the Shrine of Saint Torvald, the location they had spent thousands of lives to secure. It was a vast wall of white marble, engraved with dozens of statues of notable worthies, surrounding an arched door twenty foot high. The rest of the shrine extended beyond the armourglass roof, its steeples and arched buttresses sticking proudly out of the side of the Hive, and pointing to the sky. It was a beautiful example of Imperial architecture, pristine despite all the years of war that had wracked this hive city. Unfortunately the space between the Sisters and the shrine was not so graceful. Everywhere Justini looked bodies lay in pieces, poor wretches torn asunder whether they were armed or not. Among the piles of ordinary people were the armoured forms of Sisters, three squad's worth, those Sororitas assigned to protect this place. Justini felt a rush of sacred anger flow through her, partly at seeing her Sisters laid low, but mostly because their killers had not left.

Before the arched gate three Flesh-Golems squatted, the fearsome Spyders. Like all of their kind they were hideous fusions of meat, skin and metal, with bulging cancers randomly growing over them. Yet these were far bigger than those which had confronted them below, ranging from a dozen bodies to a score's worth. They walked on six mechanical crab-like legs and had snapping claws held up before them, while on their backs rode bulbous Lightning-guns, crackling with black arcs of energy. Below their bellies hung heavy stubbers, fixed on a gimble mount, that twitched randomly as they sought targets. From the mouth of the tunnel the Sisters faced the Spyders and felt the urge to confront these horrors fill them yet E'zard called out, "Heroes of the Imperium, this is the hour of your ascension!"

The Holy martyrs let out a wild yell and leapt into a fast sprint, heads down and arms pumping as they ran right at the Spyders. The Flesh-golems spotted them instantly and reared up, letting our freakish screams of insane rage. Weapons came to bear in heartbeats but Phantea yelled, "Covering fire!"

The line of Sisters opened up, spitting out flurries of bolts at extreme range. Justini switched her bolter to three-round bursts and pulled the trigger, sending out hurtling bolts even as her ammunition count dwindled. She focussed her fire on the leftmost Spyder, trying to distract it by hitting vulnerable flesh and as she did so she muttered, "Come on, come on, come on."

The Martyrs were twenty feet from their target, running underneath the flying bolts. They were covering the ground swiftly but the Spyders were not about to let them close unchallenged. The heavy-stubbers swivelled about and began stuttering fire at the running people, spraying bullets liberally across the atrium. Fifteen of the Martyrs were hit and fell down, bleeding out onto the cold hard surface, but the rest raced on. Justini saw a bulbous lightning gun flare, a heartbeat before it disgorged black energies, that grounded through the bodies of a dozen more people. The Martyrs jerked and quivered as they were cooked in the infernal energies, falling down as charred corpses that spewed filthy smoke. Only thirteen martyrs remained but they had closed the distance and they threw themselves at the Spyders without hesitation. They let out a cry of righteous vindication, then they ripped open the clasps on their suicide vests and the demo charges they carried detonated. Radiant light and almighty thunder were born and Justini's autosenses blacked out for a second as the terrific explosions rocked the armourglass roof and chipped the statues on the front of the shrine.

Justini's vision returned slowly and she blinked to see what was occurring. What she beheld was two of the Spyders lying on their sides, their front halves ripped to shreds. The third had lost three legs and was screaming as it fought to right itself, but thick black blood was gushing from its many wounds and its movements were slowing. Even as she watched the Flesh-golem collapsed, legs curling under it as it died and finally became still. Elation surged within her heart as she beheld the blasphemies of the foe laid low and as one the Sisters raised their voices to cheer in victory. The jubilant cries rang from the walls as the sound of triumph filled the atrium and Canoness-Preceptor Phantea shouted, "Blessed are the Holy Martyrs, they have ascended unto glory! Now Sisters, take this temple back and cleanse the Heretic scum within!"

With that the Sisters of battle leapt into motion, streaming towards the Shrine, determined to end this battle once and for all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 9**

The Warp heaved and roiled with violent swells. Surging waves of passion and terror clashed in those ethereal depths, stirred by the nightmare overrunning the galaxy. Deadly whirlpools of despair spontaneously formed, destroying long-stand warp-routes in a heartbeat. Supernovas of agony flared whenever a world was scoured of all life and blinding razor storms of tears slashed through everything they encountered. Things too terrible and dangerous to conceive swam freely, hungry for the warmth of souls and the vicarious pleasure of atrocity.

In that turbulent madness one ship was making its way along a troubled route, tacking from current to current as its navigator struggled to make headway, guided only by the guttering light of the failing Astronomican. In realspace it was a sleek and powerful warship, a Strike Cruiser of the Adeptus Astartes but here it was merely one more piece of flotsam, blown whichever way the winds wanted. Her name was the Pax Mortis and she was being battered in the tempest. Adamantium girders groaned as they were compressed and systems wailed as they struggled to function in the midst of insanity. Serfs clung onto votive talismans and prayed for protection and there were nightmares, constant night terrors that followed one even in the day shift. Even the mighty Space Marines looked at the creaking bulkheads and gripped their weapons tighter, lest some Daemon break through the wards and manifest within.

Yet there was one soul who betrayed not the slightest bit of concern, one Marine who strode through the corridors with his head held high. Chaplain Wrethan was proceeding through the compartments with a sure and steady stride, projecting confidence to all who laid eyes upon him. Wrethan had led the Penance Company in their morning firing rites and the ritual prayers and self-flagellation required by their Death Oath. All had gone well and he was satisfied that the Brothers were performing as they should, yet there had been a noticeable absence from their ranks, one he intended to address.

Wrethan paused as he reached the door to Captain Erathor's quarters, he was about to angrily stride inside but then checked himself. A Captain's rank bestowed certain privileges, even on a Penitent Crusade, Wrethan could not simply kick in the door, not unless he suspected some hidden Heresy that is. Wrethan took a moment to breathe, balancing his humours and then pressed the rune to signal for attention. There was a momentary delay and then a voice called, "Come!"

The door slid back and Wrethan calmly stepped within, seeing Erathor's quarters laid out before him. It was a standard design, a bed, a workbench, an armour stand bearing his artificer plate, a reliquary and a desk, universal across the length and breadth of the Imperium. Yet Erathor had decorated his quarters with a series of paintings, displaying landscapes, portraits and famous victories. It was unusually picturesque for a Space Marine, but it was even more idiosyncratic when one knew they had all been painted by Erathor's own hand.

Few would have credited a warrior of the Astartes with an artistic flair but Erathor had always been an odd one. Arrogant and prideful, yes, but that was a result of his ambition, he had always striven to excel and that went beyond battlefield skill. Wrethan wasn't sure he approved of this, he thought the Captain should spend more time in the Chapel flagellating himself, but Erathor had up till now met all the basic requirements of their penance and as a Captain had unique responsibilities and burdens. Command was a lonely role, Erathor had no friends among the Marines, no one to share his burdens and sought the quiet of solitude. The Chaplaincy understood this compulsion, they were fiery zealots to the rank and file, yet to the Captains they had to be a consoling ear, listening to concerns and worries that could not be said before anyone else.

Wrethan kept this in mind as he looked for Erathor. The Captain was not at his easel, where Wrethan had expected to find him idling, but instead sitting at his workbench, labouring over his metal leg with a soldering tool and a lit incense stick. Erathor didn't look up as he called, "What is it?"

Wrethan kept his voice level as he replied, "Captain, we missed you at the morning firing rites, I grew concerned."

Erthaor's head snapped up and he said, "What hour is it? Damnation, I lost track."

Wrethan knew an evasion when he heard one, the idea of a Space Marine with their eidetic memory losing track of the hour was farcical but he asked, "Trouble with the leg again?"

Erathor moved his hands to reveal an open panel as he muttered, "Wretched things never work right, I re-consecrate them over and over but the limp keeps coming back. What wouldn't I give for a real Techmarine."

Wrethan cocked his helm and said, "We do have serf-artisans on board."

"Pah," Erathor spat, "I can't let the mortals see me being weak, nor the Brothers. I can fix this myself."

With that he closed the panel on his leg and muttered the Chant of Awakening, then he tested his range of motion. Wrethan waited until he was finished then pressed, "Captain, you have been hiding in here all morning. What's really bothering you?"

Erathor frowned and said defensively, "Nothing."

Wrethan looked steadily at him for a moment, then reached up and removed his own helm. He showed his scarred face to the Captain then dared, "Erathor, I have been counselling officers for centuries, I know when something is wrong. Talk to me."

Erathor looked at him for a moment then muttered, "You see right through me."

Erathor heaved himself upright with a whirr of mechanical servomotors. He tested his feet then uttered, "I wish we were allowed some wine, not to get drunk you understand, merely to share a glass with friends."

"You're stalling," Wrethan declared firmly.

Erathor shot him an irate glance but then sighed, "Very well, if you must know, I was thinking about the War of Faith we are heading for and debating whether it is enough."

Wrethan frowned and said, "It will be the biggest conflict we have participated in, a most worthy endeavour."

"But will it aid in our redemption?" Erathor asked, "Is it even possible to atone for what we have done?"

Wrethan heard someone else's words in that and deduced, "You have been talking to Tygra again."

Erathor nodded, "Aye and he may be right."

Wrethan shook his head and said, "Tygra has lost the fire, he thinks we are past saving. You can't think that way; you have to believe that forgiveness is possible. The Emperor has laid out this path before us, the road is hard and filled with darkness but nothing of worth ever came easily."

Erathor muttered, "It's not the Emperor that concerns me, it's our kin."

Wrethan was confused and pressed, "Explain."

Erathor drew in a breath and said, "Even if we survive this war, and the next and the next, would we ever be welcomed home? Would the Storm Heralds truly accept us back into the fold?"

Wrethan didn't like the sound of that and countered, "The conditions of our Death Oath were clear; if we can atone for our sins all will be forgiven."

"After what we've done?" Erathor murmured forlornly, "We picked the wrong side in a civil war, do you think they will forget that? If we turn up one day, claiming to have completed our quest, do you think they will simply wipe the slate clean? No, we will be pariahs for the rest of our lives, always followed by dark glances and whispers of treason. I killed Captain Maxitio, the most honourable Marine I ever met, who would follow me after that. there's no way I will get my Captaincy back, at best I'll be assigned a logistical role… Master of Paperclips or some such."

"It won't be like that," Wrethan asserted hollowly.

But Erathor sighed, "I sometimes try to think where it all went wrong. I was born among the aristocracy of Lujan II, firstborn of a noble family, but with that came the expectation of success. I don't recall my family but I remember the constant pressure to excel: in schooling, in painting, in swordplay or debate, I always had to be the best. I was only a child, yet I was expected to always win. I remember angry words being exchanged when I went for Chapter's trials, then I passed and that was that, but I continued to strive as I always had. It was that drive that saw me rise to a Captaincy, but it still wasn't enough. When Lessall and Samect came calling I didn't even hesitate, I threw in my lot with callow rebels simply because I thought they would emerge victorious. I wanted to be on the winning side, does that sound like someone worthy of redemption?"

Wrethan recognised that Erathor's doubts ran deep. He was questioning his self-worth, this was the source of his despondency, a wound to his psyche as serious to an Astartes as any physical blow. Space Marines were made to feel no fear but doubt, regret and sorrow, in those matters they were not so far from human as many would like to believe. The Chaplain had to address this immediately and no mere platitude would suffice.

Wrethan drew in a breath and uttered, "When I partook in the trials I was merely another island boy. I was determined to be the strongest and fastest, I did well but I was not the ablest. Yet High Chaplain Samect personally selected me to join the Chaplaincy."

Erathor looked curious and asked, "What happened?"

Wrethan explained "It was during one of the trials, we had to race over an island and up a mountain. We raced with all we had, knowing the last ones to the top would be rejected. I ran up the slopes until I couldn't feel my legs anymore, I was so close, but then I heard crying. It was one of the other boys; he had tumbled off a cliff-face and broken his leg. It was a bad break, pus and ooze dripping out of him, one look told me gangrene had set in and he was facing a slow death. I knew to stop for him would cost me my own chance to join the Chapter, but I couldn't leave him like that. So I took my knife and made a clean end of it. I sat by his side and watched him pass, then I heard a voice call my name."

Erathor blinked in surprise and asked, "Samect was there?"

Wrethan looked into the distance and said, "He had been watching the lad suffer for hours, letting him die in agony. He wanted to see what the other aspirants would do when they found him; to test their character. In me he saw something he approved of, he said I had given up my own glory for the sake of others and was worthy of the Chaplaincy. At the time I took it as solemn praise."

"Why are you telling me this?" Erathor queried in confusion.

"Because you have done nothing that compares to my sins," Wrethan stated, "I had blood on my hands from the start but was too blind to see it. I stand in condemnation, yet I believe we can be forgiven, I believe redemption is out there, waiting for us to find it."

Erathor sounded yearning as he asked, "How?"

Wrethan drew in a breath and explained, "You must trust that the Emperor has a purpose for us, that our quest is in accordance with His will. We are here for a reason, above all else that must be the bedrock of your faith."

Erathor looked into the distance and mused, "Maybe His will is for us to die. We could go out gloriously in this War of Faith, selling our lives in one last noble charge. Then at least our names and gene-seed could be welcomed home."

Yet Wrethan rebuked him, "A man who thinks he is fated to die will find a way to make it happen, but that is the easy way out, the coward's way. To die in battle is only noble when it serves a greater cause, to throw your life away is selfish when such a deed does not serve the Emperor's will."

"Then how do we uncover His intention?" Erathor asked warily.

"One day at a time," Wrethan answered quietly, "Do not try to understand everything at once, merely see the step before you and take it. Trust that the Emperor has a plan for you, that He will guide you to the place where you are meant to be."

"That simple eh?" Erathor with a wry grin.

"Sometimes simple is best," Wrethan replied, "Now stop wallowing in your doubts and put on your armour. The Brothers need you. Let us go and remind them that we have a war to win."

Erathor nodded and with that the pair returned to their duties.


	10. Chapter 10

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 10**

The Golem foundry was never quiet, night and day it rang with the sounds of industrious labour and the screams of the damned. Shrieking buzzsaw noises were interlaced with the hammering of metal on metal and the rasping of bone saws. Cries and pleas went unheeded in the bedlam, drowned out by the workings of heavy machinery and chants praising the Ruinous Powers. Here the most infernal workings of the Disciples of Ruin were brought to fruition, dark arts that twisted the teaching of the Omnissiah into something vile and repulsive.

The Golem Foundries squatted in the upper levels of Tethys Hive, located on the southern flank where the Imperial forces had never set foot. They lurked in the shadow of the Governor's Palace and the Shield Pylons, safe and secure beneath those mighty bastions. The Foundries wormed their way into the body of the spire, reaching to the very centre, where the core shaft plunged deep within the planet, drawing endless amounts of geothermal energy to the surface. Endless streams of material and prisoners were brought up to the foundries, where the darkest of arts were worked upon them. Meat and blood and metal went in and out came abominations galore, the Flesh-golems in all their befouled majesty. This is was the nexus upon which the entire war turned, the epicentre of the corruption that had blighted this sub-sector and the abode of Ferro Corde. It was also here that Christof had returned following his successful mission, to wait upon the master of the Disciples of Ruin.

Christof was standing on a high catwalk and watching the work progress with his armoured arms crossed. Below him he saw the bubbling vats of tainted chemicals, the surgical tables where living bodies were remade into horrors and skittering tech-priests, lurking over their labours like fat spiders over a catch. Christof's eyes took it all in, seeing the spawn of Chaos being made manifest but he was unmoved.

In one corner lines of prisoners were being dragged in, screaming and beating at the metal arms of their gaolers. One woman wept and pleaded for salvation, calling out to her idolatrous God-Emperor to send his Angels. Christof heard her entreaties but felt complete indifference for her, she had nothing he wanted and he didn't do charity. The prisoners were held still as collars were clamped around their neck and shoulders, then the bone-screws were driven home. The screaming took on higher pitches as the pain came but then the drip-feed of drugs started and they became slack-jawed and docile, their identity buried under the weight of chemical-induced obedience. They were led away by black-robed acolytes yet still they were the lucky ones. Far worse fates awaited those who were dragged to the surgical tables, to become full-fledged Flesh-Golems.

Christof heard a sniff beside him and saw Rauf leaning upon the rail of the catwalk, taking it all in. The scarred and weathered warrior looked thoughtful as he mused, "You know what they remind me of?"

Further along Gwayne was staring at a table where three men were being stitched together into a hideous amalgam and ventured, "Those Daemon-Engines we saw on Scartrix?"

Rauf grimaced as he said, "No, Thunder Warriors, they remind me of the Thunder Warriors."

Despite himself Christof was intrigued, Rauf was old, they all were but he was really old. Rauf was a Terran-born, not of the first generation of Astartes but so close that it made no difference. He had fought under the skies of Terra, when the first Legion was the only Legion and the Astartes had yet to rise to dominance.

Casually Christof inquired, "How so?"

Rauf explained, "The Thunder Warriors were powerful and mighty, stronger than us in some ways. Yet they were totally unstable and psychotic. They were so powerful that none could stand against them and they laid waste to all they surveyed, yet ultimately they were flawed creations. They were good enough to conquer a world but you could never conquer a galaxy with them, put them in the hold of a starship and they'd have killed half of themselves before you got anywhere and most of the rest would have died from biological failures. These Flesh-Golems are the same, powerful but fundamentally flawed."

Gwayne frowned in curiosity, he was a son of Caliban, born centuries after the Unification Wars and he asked, "What happened to them? I mean I heard the story but it was all melodrama and hyperbole."

Rauf spat over the rail, watching the acid spittle sizzle upon a table then replied, "Who knows? There was the official story, that they all died in the last battle for Unity, but I heard a dozen rumours and barracks-room tales that told different."

"It doesn't matter," Christof declared, "They're gone and we're not. Let's focus on what's before us."

Gwayne glanced along the catwalk and muttered, "How long will Ferro Corde keep us waiting?"

"As long as he wants," Christof replied firmly.

Rauf sneered, "I can't stand that twisted freak, he is stark raving bonkers."

Christof glanced at his companion and said, "We have a deal with him, we fight and he pays us well and he keeps our presence quiet."

Rauf muttered, "You Calibanites are all the same, secretive and sly."

Christof's eyes narrowed as he said, "Would you rather have him broadcast our presence to the stars? Summoning those who hunt us?"

Rauf held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and said, "No, not that, I'm tired of being hunted."

Christof nodded and said, "Remember what he promised us, the means to evade capture forever. We can stay one step ahead of our hunters until the end of time; ultimate freedom is within our grasp."

Then Gwayne grinned and held up his bolter as he said, "And in the meantime we get our gear fixed and ammo restocked, not a bad deal."

Suddenly there was a mechanical cough and Christof half-turned to see a Tech-priest standing behind them. The black-robed figure was hidden by a voluminous robe but a mechanical voice issued forth, "Ferro Corde is available now." Wordlessly the trio followed the Tech-Priest down the catwalk, passing over the various operations underway. They soon approached a cog-shaped icon on the wall, split down the middle as the catwalk passed through the heavy doors. Beyond was a separate section of the foundry, which was isolated and secure. Within that space the catwalk merged with a wide platform, hanging above the floor on cable ties and there their walk terminated.

The chamber was cast in unnatural shadow yet in the gloom was a pair of ten-metre tall statues, held rigidly against the wall by many iron hawsers. Tech-priests were crawling all over them, working with sparking tools and razor-sharp knives as they daubed runes of Chaos in blood. Christof paid no mind to the statues, his eyes fixed upon one particular magos. He walking up and down the wall as effortlessly as a spider, literally, for the bulk of his body was a swollen metal abdomen, carried upon eight hooked leg joints. His back was lined with a ridge of razor-sharp spikes and he skittered about with the jerky start and stop motion of an arachnid. Yet where the spider's head should have been protruded a human-shaped torso, wrapped in a black robe and in a pair of spindly arms he carried a long staff, topped with a sparking series of electro-cutters and welding tools. This was Ferro Corde, founder and ruler of the Disciples of Ruin and architect of their blasphemies.

Christof waited calmly as Ferro Corde spun about on his eight legs and climbed over to the platform. His swollen bulk took up the majority of the space as he loomed over the Space Marine yet Christof was unimpressed. He looked up into an emotionless metal-face, marred by eight glinting eye-lenses and said, "You summoned me."

Ferro Corde spluttered a hash squeal of Binaric code but then his voice shifted to a soft burr as he hissed, "Christof, you test my patience. Explain to me your recent actions."

Christof was undaunted as he replied, "I work to complete our bargain, as we agreed."

Ferro Corde swayed nearer and growled, "By usurping command of my forces, overriding my orders on a whim?"

Christof stated candidly, "Your orders were inefficient, I improved them."

"My plans are laid out in accordance with the Numbers of Ruin," Ferro Corse spat, "You think you can improve upon that?!"

Christof drew in a breath and stated, "While the Imperials ran around in circles I captured the Deep Core mines. Tell me, how has that improved your efficiency?"

There was a momentary pause as a cogitator in the Magos' head whirred then Ferro Corde answered, "Material resources have increased significantly, net production of Flesh-Golems will increase by thirteen percent."

Christof followed that up by saying, "When I arrived on this world your forces were dying. The Imperials were driving you back with overwhelming numbers. I led the counter-attack, I secured the resources you needed most and held the Imperials at bay for years. You would have lost this war without me."

Ferro Corde was silent for a long moment then chuckled, "Our exchanges are most stimulating, your logic is flawless. So tell me, what do you think of my latest creations?"

Christof placed one hand on the hilt of the Sword of Solitude and said, "I think you should stick your head out of this foundry more often and see how the war is going."

Ferro Corde waved a metal hand dismissively and said, "I process all data via the noosphere, I know everything. The fighting is not important; this war is but a crucible for our evolution, forcing us to adapt and improve. So long as the fighting continues our understanding of the Numbers of Ruin grows ever greater."

"And so long as the Imperials keep feeding you bodies," Christof pointed out.

Ferro Corde snorted, "They think to fight the nature of the universe but in doing so merely dance to its tune. I understand that the universe is a cracked and broken mechanism, its very nature is ruin. I was once limited like they are, bound by laws and dogma, but the equation was there all along. I saw it when I tried to calculate the exact ratio of a circle's radius to its circumference. The numbers were never-ending, no matter how much processing time I devoted to it the final result would not compute, it was impossible! Then came the day when the great rift split the galaxy and revelation dawned upon me, Chaos exists within order and order is within Chaos. I saw the truth of the Warp and the Numbers of Ruin, showing me how to evolve in ways I never thought possible."

"How nice," Christof stated dismissively, "But back to the matter at hand."

Yet Ferro Corde wasn't listening as he proclaimed, "I overthrew the synod of my Forge-world and burned it to ash. I led my disciples across the stars, to share our revelation with any we met but it wasn't until I came here that I found my true calling. Here we can truly evolve, here we shall ascend!"

Christof fought the urge to sigh, for a Tech-Priest Ferro Corde's emotional state was highly unstable and he was prone to erratic mood swings. Wearily he said, "That's all well and good, but we still have a war to win."

Ferro Corde's head snapped back and he hissed accusingly, "You don't believe in the Numbers of Ruin, in the glory of Chaos."

Christof stated firmly, "I owe no loyalty to Chaos or the Imperium. I am done with all that, the only thing that matters to me is my freedom."

Ferro Corde banished his staff and hissed, "I have seen the things you have done, the slaughters you have wrecked. You are not as impartial as you claim; you have done things the Imperium would not dare to dream of."

"Do you expect me to apologise?" Christof retorted, "I steer my own path and I regret none of it! I do not ask forgiveness or absolution for anything I have done."

Ferro Corde lowered himself until they were eye to eye and hissed, "Then what do you believe in?"

Christof replied candidly, "I believe in doing my job and getting paid."

Ferro Corde's mood swung again and he chuckled, "Ah yes, your payment, rest assured it is safe in my hands. I will fulfil our bargain once your task is complete."

Christof asked, "Then I am free to prosecute this war as I see fit?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Ferro Corde agreed, "Go forth and slaughter whatever you want, I have work to do."

"I am glad that's resolved," Christof said, "Now I have an army to organise."

With that he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the mad Tech-Priest behind. Ferro Corde watched them go then spun about on his eight legs and faced the statues. He took up his staff and leapt the distance with ease, then set to work upon their forms and as the shadows fell two voices from within resumed their screaming.


	11. Chapter 11

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 11**

The bare stone floor was cold under her feet, the flagstone sucking warmth from her exposed skin. The lighting was dim and the thick stone walls were adorned with pictures of saints and Imperial worthies. It was a solemn and contemplative place but if someone strained their ears they could have just made out the distant sounds of the Hive city beyond the walls and the war that yet raged there.

This was the Chantry-barracks of the Adepta Sororitas in Tethys Hive, located in what had once been the artisan's quarter of the lower spire. It was a brooding environment, the dour architecture typical of the High Gothic style favoured in this age. Here were quarters and armouries to service an entire Preceptory, some thousand Sisters, though there were never that many actually present at any one time. Battle Sister squads were at the forefront of every battle, spreading their forces across the city as they were needed. Other Preceptory's existed across the planet, lending their aid to other campaigns but this was the largest and most important. The fighting never seemed to end, yet there had to be time to rest and recuperate. The Adepta Sororitas were only human; they could not fight endlessly, so squads would be rotated back to the Chantry to rest and pray, regaining their strength for the fights to come.

Justini walked in procession with her squad, heading from the chapel to their dormitory. They had all removed their armour and left it with the lay-adepts for repair. Instead they wore long grey robes, plain and humble attire, to show their piety. They walked with their hands clasped before them, heads lowered in contemplation and they were bare-foot, for shoes were held to be an unnecessary extravagance. In single file they walked, passing by various personnel who stood aside for them. The sisters were the fighting strength of the Order but they needed support too, cooks, cleaners, artisans, preachers, pilots and victuallers, many men laboured so the sisters could march to war.

Justini paid them no mind as the squad made their way to their room. The hour was late and she dearly wanted to get to bed. The squad had returned that morning after securing the Shrine of Saint Torvald and been swept up in post-battle activity. They had been stripped of their gear, debriefed, subjected to medical exams and morality tests, to check they had not acquired the taint of the enemy, followed by two hours of solemn prayer. Now they were commanded to sleep and that was a most welcome order. Karna was leading from the front as she turned to enter a dormitory. It was an unimpressive space, ten beds in two rows of five, each one identical in size and form and flanked by a small locker. The walls were broken up by small alcoves, holding statuettes of Imperial Heroes and in one corner a wooden door sealed off an ablution chamber. The squad filed in and waited silently as Karna eyed them sternly then declared, "Sisters, you have done well. You are now given free time, to contemplate your duties. Make the most of it, lights out in fifteen minutes."

With that the squad broke up, sighing in relief as they went to tend to their own affairs. Selosha headed straight for the ablutions, probably to fix her perfect hair Justini thought snidely, before remonstrating herself for her jealous impulse. Appearances should not matter to her, she told herself, rather she should learn to be content with what the God-Emperor had granted her. Form mattered not, the teachings told, the spirit was what mattered. Unfortunately Justini's body ached all over, her wounds were minor but the exertion of wearing power armour was considerable. Even at peak physical condition, the human body was subjected to punishing strain by fighting in powered plate. A few days locked in her armour hurt her almost as much as the blows of the enemy did. Justini noticed a small statuette in an alcove on the wall, one of the God-Emperor's mighty Space Marines, and she muttered, "I'd wager you don't have these problems."

"What's that?" Desity asked curiously from her own bedside.

"Merely wondering if the Adeptus Astartes ache this much after a fight," Justini answered.

"Not sodding likely," Desity snorted, "Those mutants were built for war; they can fight for weeks in armour and still come back eager for more."

Resita glanced over and declared, "The Angels of Death walk with His grace, do not call them mutants."

But Desity snapped back, "Look at them, they deviate from the purity of the human form. They are abhumans at best."

Resita scowled as she uttered, "They are the work of His hand, it is not our place to question His designs!"

"The Ecclesiarch bloody does," Desity retorted, "There have been Wars of Faith over the matter… which we lost."

Justini left them to argue, for it was an old debate. The Imperial Faith had a prickly relationship with the Space Marines. On the one hand they predated the Adeptus Minstorum, they had been instrumental in the creation of the Imperium and could genuinely claim a blood-relationship to the God-Emperor himself. On the other hand they were inhuman giants, who did not acknowledge the divine right of the state religion to dictate the beliefs of mankind. They followed their own creeds and ideologies, stubbornly refusing to bend the knee to the Priesthood, much like the Adeptus Mechanicus. The two institutions maintained a cool and distant relationship, largely ignoring each other whenever possible.

Justini turned and slumped over to her bed, sitting down on it with a thud. Around her the others tended to their own affairs but nobody looked at the four empty beds, those Sisters had all been lost in battle over the last few years and not been replaced, the squad was smaller now than ever before. Desity had finished arguing and was taking her teeth out to put them in a mug of water, she wasn't that old but a lifetime of war had knocked out all her real ones. Resita got on her knees and took a chapbook from her locker, continuing her prayers. Karna was re-reading a correspondence from a friend back on Ophelia VII and Praxi was rummaging through her locker, looking for her paper bag of sugar-canes.

A member of the Adepta Sororitas was allowed few personal effects, very few indeed, but they were permitted a handful of personal items, subject to their superior's approval of course. They kept these in their lockers and Justini opened hers now. Inside was a small collection of items, a few books on poetry and philosophy, all sanctioned and approved by the Eccelesiarchy naturally. A prayer weaving from her novice days, a used bolt-shell casing inscribed with an Aquila, a silver ring on a string and a pack of pamphlets, printed with triumphant images of Imperial Heroes on the front cover. Justini reached in and picked up the pamphlets, thumbing through them with a wistful air. She had owned these for a long time, she knew them all off by heart, but it brought back fond memories.

Across from her Praxi glanced over and asked, "What's that?"

Justini started in surprise and folded her hands over the pamphlets saying, "Nothing."

An amused gleam came over Praxi's eyes and she waved her hand saying, "Come on, don't be shy. I'll trade you a sugar-cane."

Justini felt her hunger stir, such treats were rare for a Sororitas, Praxi had been required to spend extra hours sweeping the chapel to obtain them. Justini's head said no, but her heart and stomach had other opinions so she reluctantly handed over the pamphlets and took a pink stick from the proffered bag. She took a nibble and sighed contentedly, Throne, that was better than the porridge and thick bread they were usually served. Praxi was thumbing through the pamphlets and muttered, "These are recruitment tokens, the stuff they hand out in the slums to convince young men to join the Guard."

Justini gnawed her stick slowly and replied between chews, "I had a collection going when I was younger."

Praxi glanced up and said, "I notice they all have the same man on the front, why does he look so familiar?"

Justini felt the creeping heat of a blush forming and admitted, "It's… its Ciaphas Cain."

Praxi's face split by a wide grin and she uttered, "The famous Commissar-Hero of the Imperium, pious servant of the God-Emperor and champion of the common man. The great and noble warrior who threw back Heretics, Traitors and Xenos armed with nothing but a chainsword and a cocky grin. He's back you know, came out of retirement all guns blazing to drive off the Chaos invasion of Perlia single-handed.

Justini accepted this without question and said, "Of course he did, so selfless and brave a hero as he could never stand idle when the God-Emperor calls."

Praxi leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, "Ohhh… an admirer are you?"

Justini knew she was being teased but admitted, "I had a… thing for him in my adolescence. I used to dream of fighting by his side, driving back the hordes of darkness with our courage and humble devotion."

Praxi's lip curled in amusement and she said, "And you dreamed that afterwards you two would…"

"Praxi!" Justini gasped in mock outrage, "What are you implying?!"

Praxi held back a grin for a moment but then her poker face crumbled and she guffawed, "You're too easy to tease! Come on, admit it, you thought about it."

Justini couldn't help but smile in return and she admitted, "It was that smirk of his, that darned smirk."

Praxi chuckled wickedly then said, "For me, it was Cardinal Escheber."

"Escheber?" Justini started in confusion, "He's five hundred years old!"

Praxi shrugged and said, "What can I say, I was thirteen, we all go through that phase, it's part of growing up. I saw more shocking things than that on the streets."

Justini took back her pamphlets and asked, "You didn't go into the Order from the Schola Progenium?"

Praxi sniffed as she put her bag of sugar-canes away and said, "No, I was a middle child in a big family. Poverty hit hard in the slums of Ophelia VII and my parents couldn't feed all the kids, so my da dumped me on the steps of the cathedral."

"That sounds rough," Justini replied carefully as she chewed on the last of the sugar-cane.

"The best thing that ever happened to me," Praxi declared firmly, "Regular meals, my own bed and the beatings were only half as painful as my da's, I loved it from day one. What about you?"

Justini sighed and put the pamphlets away, then picked up the silver ring and held it up to the light. She examined it and said, "I'm told my mother was an officer in the Imperial Guard. She left me as a babe in arms at the Schola Progenium, all I have to remember her by is this ring. I grew up in the orphanage with all the other kids whose parents went off to war, until the recruiters came by and took us off to our professions. I was one of the worst scrappers in the play yard so I got picked for the Sororitas."

Praxi's voice fell to a whisper as she asked, "Who was she?"

"I never found out," Justini replied sadly, "There's no inscription or regimental crest on this. The teachers say she meant for me to sell it and get a good start in life but I could never bear to part with it. I used to hold it and wonder who she was and why she left me. Was she being shipped off to some hellhole that she knew she wouldn't come back from and tried to spare me? Was she some lauded General who had a scandalous affair with a nobleman? Is she still alive or lying dead under some alien sky?"

Praxi sighed, "Such is life, but we have the God-Emperor and the Order."

Justini nodded and recited the mantra, "The Order is our family."

Then there was the sound of Karna standing up and she declared, "Time's up, into your beds!" Justini hurriedly pulled the string over her head and let the ring dandle, as Selosha came out and skipped over to her own bed, looking annoyingly refreshed. Then the squad doffed their robes and put on nightshirts before climbing into bed.

Karna declared loudly, "Sleep well, tomorrow it's back to the assault course!" Then she turned the lights down to a dull pinprick and climbed back into her own bed. Justini lay there in the darkness as the others settled in, but her hand drifted to her ring. As she waited for sleep to come she returned to the thoughts of her youth, questioning who her mother had been, where she had gone and what worlds she had seen. It was a question she knew would never be answered but she could not help but wonder.

So she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of far-off worlds with alien skies.


	12. Chapter 12

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 12**

She needed the latrine, the thought arose, dragging her from her slumber, she needed to get up and go visit the ablutions, badly. Justini tried to ignore the impulse, to stay wrapped up in her blankets where it was warm but the urge would not go away. She rolled over in her bed and pulled the blanket higher, curling her legs together in an effort to stave off the sensation but it was no good, she couldn't sleep like this.

Justini rolled onto her back and sighed, she was going to have to get up, no two ways about it. She opened her eyes and her dark adjusted senses showed her the dormitory with her Sisters dozing peacefully. It must be the middle of the night, those hours when the solace of slumber should envelop them all. Justini was loath to get out of bed but her bladder was insisting upon it. With no other recourse she pulled back the blanket and sat up, swirling her body so her feet touched the floor. Instantly a wave of coldness swept over her, the comforting bubble of warmth in her bed torn from her by the frigid air and chilly flagstones.

There was nothing else to be done, save move fast and she hurriedly stood up and skipped to the wooden door, muttering a few of Desity's more colourful phrases under her breath as she did so. Inside the ablutions it was even colder and she shivered as she did what she had to do. She felt relief wash over her and rinsed her hands in the basin of icy water, before returning to the dormitory. Once inside Justini fully intended to return to her bed as swiftly as possible but something made her hesitate. It was gloomy but she could make out the beds in their rows of five and hear her Sister's steady breathing. Yet something was off, an ancient instinct was creeping over her, telling her that things were not as they seemed. It was the prickle on the back of the neck that primordial cave dwellers had sensed before a great predator leapt out of the dark. The cold, icy sensation that something was moving, watching her with hostile eyes. Justini found her hand moving as if to take the grip of her bolter, but of course she was unarmed. Her weapons had been returned to the armoury and the Sisters were not permitted arms when at rest. She swallowed nervously and edged nearer the wall, stretching her senses to the utmost in an attempt to discern what had triggered her alarm. All seemed quiet and peaceful, yet there was a soft murmur coming through the open door, a quiver in the ears that was almost beneath notice. Most people would have brushed it off as nothing, but to one who had spent several years at the sharp end of combat it made her hackles rise. Her subconscious was screaming at her that something was off, like a veteran who hears an indistinct noise and is already diving for cover while rookies stand dumbly in the open.

Quietly she crept to the doorway, passing the various beds and her sleeping Sisters. She leant on the doorjamb and peered out, longing for her bolter, but all she saw was the bare and empty corridor. She glanced back at her bed, thinking maybe she was jumping at nothing and considering whether to return to the warmth of her blanket. But then her hand went to the ring around her neck, she may not know whom her mother had been but surely she had believed in duty, all Imperial Guard officers did. Justini knew she would not be able to sleep wondering if she had left a potential threat unexplored and resolved to press on.

She slid out into the corridor and paced silently down the dark hallway. The flagstones were if anything even colder than her dormitory and the electro-scones were dead bulbs, only a trickle of light coming through a narrow window at the end of the corridor let her see anything. She strained her ears and heard a muffled noise coming from ahead, from a small supply cupboard, where cleaners stored their mops. There was definitely a noise coming from it, a faint murmur and the rattling of something moving about. Justini didn't know what could be making the noise but she knew there was only one way to find out and reached to grip the handle, then she firmly yanked it back, revealing the interior. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped in astonishment at what she beheld. It was Selosha and she was grappling with a young man, no wait, that wasn't grappling, they were… they were…

"Justini!" Selosha gasped, sounding equally shocked to see her as she was herself.

Justini hurriedly backed away and stuttered, "I… I was… I didn't mean to…"

The two stared stupidly at each other for a moment then Justini turned to run back to her room. Yet Selosha was faster, she darted forward and grabbed her by the shoulder hissing, "Wait!"

Justini struggled in her grip, trying to break free and barking, "Let me go!"

"Not so loud," Selosha hissed, "You'll wake everybody."

"You two were…" Justini gasped.

"Let me explain," Selosha implored, "Please, think of all the times we've saved each others' lives. For everything we've been through, give me five minutes."

"I can't," Justini blabbed in confusion, "I should go back."

"Please!" Selosha begged.

Justini looked down the dark corridor, then back at her Sister. She swallowed a knot of nervousness then nodded and said, "Very well."

Selosha nodded to the young man, who was buttoning up his shirt and she said, "Go back to your quarters, act like nothing's happened, I'll see you soon."

The man glanced down the corridor then dashed away. Yet as he disappeared Justini realised she had seen him before, he was one of the workers in the Chantry-barracks, just one more face among the grey masses that passed them daily in the corridors. Selosha pulled Justini into the cupboard and in the gloomy confines whispered, "What did you see?"

Justini was torn between shock and confusion but a hint of outrage sparked within her and she hissed, "I saw enough."

Selosha looked down and muttered, "No point denying it, yes, Gared and I are lovers."

A thousand questions flashed through Justini's mind but the loudest one was, "How long has this been going on?"

Selosha couldn't keep her lip from twitching smugly as she answered, "A couple of months."

"Months!" Justini spat in shock.

"Shhhhhh," Selosha hissed, "Not so loud."

Justini's confusion was giving way to indignation and she growled, "You swore fealty and chastity to the God-Emperor, you are breaking your sacred vows!"

Selosha didn't seem in the least bit admonished as she muttered, "Oh vows, so many vows to fight and pray and suffer. We eat fortified porridge and walk on freezing floors and throw ourselves into the fray, without thought or question. I've done it for more years than I can remember and it's too much, I don't want to live like this anymore. I've spent my whole life in the damned nunnery, while there are whole worlds out there waiting to be explored."

Justini was shocked that any Sororitas could speak so and growled, "We swore our lives to the Order, we swore obedience to the teachings of the Ecclesiarch."

Yet Selosha sneered, "You never stood guard duty for the high and mighty on Ophelia VII, did you? Well, I did and I saw what the Cardinals are doing when nobody is looking. They feast and drink and whore their nights away, rolling in the riches they fleece out of the common man. While we starve and flog ourselves, standing vigils in freezing chapels, they violate every teaching they have ever preached in the pulpit. The whole system is rotten, I tell you and I can't take it anymore."

Justini snarled, "You saw our superiors falling short of His expectations, so you decide to emulate them and break your vows! You'll never get away with it, you'll be caught!"

Yet Selosha shook her head and said, "I don't intend to let them catch me, I am going to leave, before anyone can find out."

Justini stammered, "You're… you're what?"

"Gerad is a shuttle pilot," Selosha explained, "He's working on finding a Pilgrim ship that can take us away from this world, we will fly away from here and never look back."

Justini felt reality rock beneath her and stammered, "You're talking about abandoning the Order, you intend to abscond from your vows and duties!"

"'I'm talking about living!" Selosha retorted, "I've never seen anything other than cold walls and battlefields. I've fought and bled and watched friends die in my arms and it's too much, nobody should have to live like this. I can't do this anymore, I'm burned out. I want something for myself; I want to live my own life."

Justini was lost in bewilderment and blurted, "I can't simply let you go."

Yet Selosha implored, "Please, you have to help me, you have to keep this secret."

"I can't!" Justini gasped, "It's Heresy!"

Selosha scowled at that and spat, "I'm not some Chaos worshipper plotting some vast conspiracy. I have no plans to hurt anybody; I simply want to go, to take off for the stars and not come back."

Justini shook her head and said, "But what of the Order and the war?"

"What of them?" Selosha snapped, "There are millions of Fraters and thousands of Sisters fighting. What does it matter if one of them disappears?"

Justini uttered in scorn, "And the squad, we'll be one soul down without you, does that mean nothing to you?"

Selosha sighed, "And what if I go out tomorrow and take a bullet to the head, how would that be better? I'll be one more corpse, lying forgotten and unmourned. This war has already gobbled up so many lives; one more won't make a difference. I could die in battle or simply disappear and the war won't notice, it will keep rumbling on, consuming lives without pause."

A part of Justini couldn't believe her Sister would speak so, but another part wasn't surprised. Selosha had always been the wild one, the one to embrace the thrill of combat. She had been fierce in battle, but that fire extended into all aspects of life. In hindsight it was obvious she would never be content with the frugal and humble life of a Sororitas, she had always wanted more than that.

Justini inched back and said, "I have to tell Karna."

"No!" Selosha cried desperately, "They'll send me to the Repentia; I'll be made to fight half-naked and torn to pieces. If you tell Karna then I'm as good as dead."

"But the order," Justini protested, "Our vows…"

"Forbid us to love," Selosha stated, "What kind of order forbids love?"

Justini knew Selosha was trying to manipulate her, she found it doubtful that her Sister could love anybody but herself. But then Justini had never thought she would witness what she had this very night. Everything she thought she knew was being turned upside down and in her heart she didn't know what to do. She stammered in confusion, "I don't… I'm not sure…"

Selosha leaned forward and said, "I'm not asking you to do anything other than keep your mouth shut. Gerad says he can get us onto a ship in a few more weeks. If you keep quiet about this I will simply disappear one day, like I died in battle."

Justini swallowed hesitantly and said, "I…"

But Selosha pressed, "I did save your life."

Justini realised then that she had to choose between her squadmate and the Order. Her vows told her to immediately report this infraction, but her bond of friendship demanded she keep quiet. She and Selosha had fought alongside each other for years, they had saved each other's lives more times than she could count. Deep down she knew the distant cardinals didn't care about the Sisterhood, not as individuals, but Selosha was right here and asking for her help. By the God-Emperor, how could she say no to that?

Justini swallowed her denials and looked down as she said, "I'll do it."

Selosha's face lit up and she exclaimed, "You'll keep this secret!"

Justini could only nod in response as Selosha said, "Thank you, I'll owe you forever."

Justini muttered sullenly, "We should get back to bed."

Selosha nodded in agreement and said, "You're a true friend."

With that she slipped out the cupboard and crept silently away into the darkness. Justini waited for a moment as she thought upon the enormity of what she had just done, she had broken her vows and helped another to do so. In the darkness her hand slid up to the ring around her neck and she felt a burning sense of guilt building within her as the odd sensation stole over her that somewhere, somehow, her mother's spirit was looking upon her with condemnation.


	13. Chapter 13

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 13**

The Arbites Precinct had once been a bastion of law and order, a beacon of obedience and stern judgement. It was a veritable fortress and its mighty guns had once commanded vast swathes of the western Hive. It had been cunningly positioned too, in the flanks of the lower spire, between the mid-tier residences and the mercantile districts, so that the lower strata of society would have to pass beneath its stern glare and know they were being watched. Even the nobility could not avoid its gaze, their former mansions sitting in full view of the Precinct. It extended well into the bulk of the spire too, making its heavy presence felt everywhere. Whether a person was pious or profane, law-abiding or criminal, all had looked upon it and known exactly where they stood.

That was then, this was now.

The Arbites Precinct now dwelled in the sphere of a different order, its fealty having been turned to the use of another force. The walls were manned by drooling slaves, who worked the guns with monotonous diligence. The gates were held by more slaves and hideous Flesh-golems while the internal systems were manned by black-clad tech-Priests. The Disciples of Ruin now owned the Precinct and they were determined not to be evicted.

The Imperials had seen fit to challenge that situation, since the start of the war they had thrown their armies at those bleak walls, spending the blood of the faithful to scale its bastions and tear out its inhabitants. Unfortunately the Arbites knew how to build a defensive emplacement and not one assault had come close to dislodging the Disciples, the Frater's ranks being decimated by deadly crossfires and savage counter-charges. From above or below the Precinct had proved impregnable and the death toll had risen so high that even Cardinal Pontius Pilate had been given pause. Eventually the Imperials had got the message; the Arbites Precinct was too tough to take in a direct assault so the fighting had moved on to other regions. Yet still small parties of sappers probed it endlessly, keeping the defenders from knowing peace.

Christof could hear the guns chattering from deep within the fortress, no doubt sweeping away yet another party of foes who had dared show their faces. Christof paid it no mind, the Disciples could handle it, he had no reason to visit the walls this day. Content the Space Marine returned his gaze to a wide hall deep within the fortress, seeing his own work in progress. Before him reinforced cages held Flesh-Golems in isolation from each other. They snarled and growled at Disciples of Ruin, who were prodding them with long goads and stabbing strange devices into their bodies. Clicking mechanisms whirred and buzzed on their swollen bulk, sending the horrors into shudders of pain and provoking cries of agony.

This was Christof's own contribution to the Flesh-Golems, his own personal slant on the process. From the moment he had seen Ferro Corde at work he had understood their potential, in ways even the Magos did not. The Disciples of Ruin craved ever greater monstrosities, desiring rampaging titans of flesh and metal, but Christof had suggested another path. The Flesh-Golems were powerful and aggressive but also feral and uncontrollable, unable to respond to basic orders, Christof sought to change that. Ferro Corde had been disinterested in the proposal yet he had granted a small coterie of acolytes and the Arbites Precinct to pursue the notion and Christof had seized upon the opportunity.

Suddenly there was a cry from one of the creatures, a Hell-Geist. Its body was convulsing and thrashing as it beat its head against the bars of its cage, slamming what passed for its brains into the reinforced metal. Over and over it pounded its skull into the bars until there was a sharp crack and it slumped to the ground. It had broken its own neck, committing suicide in a desperate attempt to escape its torment. Christof's lip twitched as he grew angry for this kept happening, to accept orders the beasts had to have their intelligence elevated but the creatures were made from human beings and as their self-awareness grew their abhorrence for their own existence swelled. As soon as they grew aware enough to realise what had been done to them they instantly sought the release of death. It was a thorny problem but not insurmountable, he had succeeded with the Buzz-wings by bypassing their free will entirely, yet extending that process to encompass larger Flesh-Golems was proving extremely problematic.

A black-clad acolyte scuttled over to examine the body, then directed a bevvy of slaves to drag the corpse away. Work resumed a moment later but Christof moved to intercept the Disciple and barked, "What went wrong this time?"

The Disciple paused, its face nothing save green lenses under a dark hood and replied, "Data not available, post-mortem analysis will reveal more information."

"You were meant to have fixed this," Christof snarled.

"Biological enhancements such as these are most complex," the acolyte stated, "A certain amount of trial and error is to be expected."

"All I am seeing are errors," Christof growled angrily.

The Acolyte had no facial expressions but somehow seemed avaricious as it suggested, "The work would advance if we had a stable template to emulate. If we could examine your own biological enhancements then we could develop a baseline for comparison."

Christof's lip curled in disgust and he spat, I told you already, your kind are not getting your hands on our gene-seed."

"But there is so much we could learn!" the acolyte cried.

"I said no," Christof snapped, "I have already let you examine my armour and gear, your Flesh-Golems incorporate many of those elements, but I will not give you the secrets of the Astartes. I know what you would do, what horrors you will unleash."

"Then we return to the process of trial and error," the acolyte stated without rancour.

"Then get on with it," Christof growled.

The Tech-Priest scuttled away and Christof turned to face his staring underlings and snapped, "Get back to work!"

The acolytes resumed their labours as Christof stalked away. He stomped up a flight of stairs, to a balcony where his comrades were watching the room with casual disdain. Rauf greeted him without looking, "Lose another one?"

Christof stomped over to them and muttered, "Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?"

Gwayne casually remarked, "We keep telling you this is a waste of time, the Disciples can't make anything stable, your idea of controllable Flesh-Golems is hopeless."

Christof crossed his arms and declared, "It has to be tried and I'm sure it can be done. The Flesh-Golems aren't an army, merely a horde of travesties but they could be so much more. If we can marry the strength of the Flesh-Golems with the discipline of true soldiers, then we can win this war in days."

Gwayne frowned as he said, "Why not simply let the Disciples harvest our gene-seed and make real Space Marines?"

Yet Christof sneered, "You would give Ferro Corde that kind of power?"

Rauf interjected, "Wouldn't work anyway, Astartes gene-craft is beyond these tinkerer's ability. The genius and skill that went into making us was astonishing, even for the gene-wrights of Old Earth it was a labour of centuries and they made plenty of mistakes along the way. Ferro Corde doesn't know the secrets of the Astartes, he couldn't make Space Marines if he had an unlimited supply of gene-seed and a hundred years to work at it."

Gwayne looked at him askance and said, "You always go on about Terra, but you never speak of Caliban, why is that?"

Rauf sniffed, "It was never my home, even when I was exiled there, Caliban meant nothing to me."

Gwayne frowned and asked, "I've never asked, but why were you exiled?"

"I don't know," Rauf muttered, "I fought as hard for the Lion as I had for the Emperor, but I can't deny things began to change after he came; suspicion and mistrust crept into the soul of the Legion and there were secrets in every shadow. Discontent was growing among the Terran veterans but I tried to keep my nose out of it. Yet someone must have marked me out, for one day word came I was to be exiled, left to rot with all others who crossed the Lion. No reason for it, no explanations, but I was exiled as if all my centuries of service meant nothing."

Gwayne muttered, "No wonder you signed up with Luther."

Rauf nodded in agreement and said, "When he announced he intended to revolt against our perfidious Primarch I was cheering."

Gwayne looked into the distance and stated, "I never saw the Lion, I never even left Caliban. I was one of the later recruits, born and raised under Luther's stewardship. There was never any question of where our loyalty lay. Christof, what's your story?"

Christof looked over the rail and said noncommittally, "It doesn't matter."

Rauf frowned and responded, "Yes it does, tell us."

Christof didn't look at him as he said, "You wouldn't understand."

Rauf turned to face him squarely and his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he growled, "Don't do that, keeping secrets is what drove the Legion against itself. Tell us what you're hiding."

Christof sighed, "You won't like it but if you must know, I was never exiled; I was on the other side."

"You what?" Gwayne asked in confusion.

Wearily Christof explained, "I was Sword-Champion to Master Berrun, commander of the 783rd expeditionary force. We fought as a detached fleet, operating as pathfinders for the First Legion. Then came the Heresy and we were swept up in the fighting. We tried to link up with the Lion, but the warp storms isolated us, so we fought Horus' forces where and when we could. It wasn't until after the Siege of Terra that we were able to rejoin the Legion proper. It was the first and only time I laid eyes upon the Lion and he ordered that the First Legion was returning to Caliban."

Rauf took a step back and hissed, "You never swore allegiance to Luther?"

Christof replied candidly, "I fought against his rebellion, storming the southern archologies and the deeps mines below. I didn't understand how it could have happened, we had fought Traitors across the length of the galaxy but now they were in our own midst. My head was reeling and it seemed the whole planet was shaking in harmony with my shock, but it wasn't in my head, the planet really was undergoing a catastrophe. The Warp ripped open and Caliban broke apart. We were all swept away by it, being loyalist or traitor made no difference, the Warp took us all."

Rauf and Gwayne's hands fell to their bolter's grips and they hissed, "You are still loyal to the Lion!"

But Christof sighed, "I said you wouldn't understand. No, I owe them nothing."

"Explain," Rauf growled, "Quickly."

Christof drew in a slow breath and uttered, "I awoke on a planet I didn't recognise, but I wasn't alone. A few of us had arrived together, along with Master Berrun. I won't bore you with the details, save that it took us years to find transport off that world and re-establish Astropathic contact with the Dark Angels. We discovered ten millennia had passed, the sheer enormity of that nearly broke us, but we held true, clinging to the hope of rejoining our kin. The Legion was gone, replaced by Chapters, but the Dark Angels still existed."

"What happened?" Gwayne asked.

"We were betrayed," Christof growled, "They returned warm missives of greeting, requesting a rendezvous on a desolate world. We expected to be welcomed by our kin, but when their forces arrived they attacked us! They sent squads to capture us and kill any who had seen us. We fought back but it was futile, they overwhelmed our defences. Berrun fell into their clutches so we ran, but they pursued us regardless. Relentless hunters dogging our footsteps, dragging us away one by one, only I was able to escape, the rest were taken."

"I don't understand," Rauf said, "Why attack you if you were loyal?"

Christof replied forlornly, "It took me years to unravel the mystery, to find another Fallen and uncover the truth. I learned of the Unforgiven and their endless quest to expunge the history of Caliban and that's when I realised that the Dark Angels don't see me as being any different to you. They think anyone who was taken by the Warp had to be a Fallen; they can't conceive that some of those swept away weren't fighting for Luther. All are guilty in their eyes, they can't bring themselves to think any other way."

"So they want you as much they do us?" Gwayne replied.

Christof affirmed, "The Unforgiven want to make us repent but I have nothing to atone for. The Dark Angels betrayed me, not the other way around and Chaos offers but madness and corruption. I am done with them all, I seek only to leave them in my dust and remain free."

Rauf stared at him for a moment then relaxed slightly and said, "It's true, the Dark Angels refuse to consider anything save their own interpretation of events. Your former allegiance matters not, they will do the same to you as they would to us."

"Then you understand," Christof declared, "Now let us focus on winning this war and then we shall receive the means to get as far away from the Unforgiven as it is possible to get."


	14. Chapter 14

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 14**

On the very edge of the Ophanim system space began to ripple and distort, the fabric of the materium growing taut as it was manipulated by energies beyond comprehension. Complex knots of gravitic force acting against each other in ways that gouged at the fabric of reality. Space buckled and convulsed as the conflicting tides surged, like a whirlpool forming between two counter-currents. The paradox was too much and with a flash of unlight a rift formed, a swirling portal into a realm of impossible geometries and boundless energy.

Inconceivable horrors bathed in the rift, creatures made of nightmares trying to find purchase upon reality, but they were shoved aside by something far denser. Through the multi-coloured breech came a dark blot of metal and stone, a vast prow surfacing from a sea of mutable possibility to the hard and unforgiving shores of the real. A shimmering Gellar field encompassed armoured flanks, that were scarred by centuries of war and upon its bulwarks shone icon of a spiral in a starburst. It was the Pax Mortis and it returned to realspace as swiftly as an arrow sprung from a bow.

On her bridge cheering arose as the serfs celebrated a successful warp-jump, their harrowing sojourn through the Immaterium coming to an abrupt end. They raised their voices in songs of thanksgiving, praising the Emperor for his guidance and His protection. Every soul felt relief at being back in the Materium and they rejoiced at the prospect of sleeping through a night without nightmares. Yet two souls were not cheering, instead standing sternly upon the Command Dias and watching the crew with flinty eyes.

Chaplain Wrethan knew the crew were elated at having survived passage through the Warp yet he was also aware that the moments after translation, when a ship was blind and powerless, were critical moments. Sternly he lifted his voice and shouted, "Stand to your posts! Get power to the void shields, fire the main drive and commence Auspex sweeps. Move it you dogs, the Emperor is watching!"

Swiftly the crew returned to their duties and in moments the noise of busy industry returned. Erathor stood proudly in his artificer plate and after a minute ordered, "Situation report."

Chaplain Wrethan checked the status displays before turning to Erathor and reporting, "Translation complete Captain, Auspex reveals local space is clear of threats. Astrogation reports we are in the Ophanim system but we emerged fifty astronomical units from the local star."

Erathor sighed, "Not ideal, but given the state of the Warp, fifty AU is acceptable. Pass my compliments to the Navigator for a successful Warp passage."

Wrethan waved a serf to comply but leaned in to say, "This will lengthen our journey to the system's habitable zone, we must make all speed."

"It can't be helped," Erathor stated resignedly, "We can use this time to study vox-transmissions from the ground and update our strategy."

Wrethan nodded and said, "We should send formal missives to whoever is running this war. Given our history, co-operation with the Ecclesiarchy may prove… problematic."

"I leave that in your capable hands," Erathor replied, "I intend to have as little to do with the priesthood as I can."

Wrethan scowled under his helm, there were few things indeed he would dislike more than arguing with fat Cardinals and blinkered preachers. The Astartes in general, and the Storm Heralds in particular, had a troubled history with the Adeptus Ministorum. Sadly an order was an order, he would just have to suck it up and endure the pontificating lectures and snide comments to come.

Suddenly Wrethan was startled as his helm blinked a request for a private vox-link. It was Brother Vandeen, a Tactical Squad Initiate and he shouldn't be contacting the Chaplain directly. Wrethan frowned at the breach in protocol but opened the link and proclaimed, "Wethan here, this had better be good."

Vandeen's voice issued forth, "Father Wrethan, I apologise for the unusual nature of this message but a dangerous situation has arisen below decks, one that requires your immediate intervention."

Wrethan's jaw clenched and he spat, "What could possibly justify this intrusion?"

Vandeem replied, "I am in mess hall seventeen and there is an assembly being conducted here. It is Captain Tygra; he is fermenting discontent among the ranks."

"Tygra," Wrethan muttered, "You were right to contact me, stay there and do not reveal yourself. I am on my way."

Erathor sensed something amiss and glanced over saying, "Chaplain?"

Wrethan cut the link and spoke aloud, "A disciplinary matter has arisen below decks. I must address it at once, with your permission?"

Erathor nodded and Wrethan turned on his heel to practically dash from the bridge. He hastened past startled serfs and ran through the hatch, racing for the nearest transit capsule. He shoved a pair of serfs out of the way and dove into the first conveyance he saw, before being whisked down a dark tube into the depths of the Pax Mortis. The capsule moved at a rapid pace, crossing the miles-long cruiser in moments, but Wrethan cursed every second that passed. Tygra was up to something, he knew it in his bones, the stiff-necked officer had been a malcontent from the start but now it seemed he had grown past mere grumbling.

The capsule screeched to a halt and Wrethan dove out, sprinting the distance to the mess hall. He saw the door ahead, hearing deep voices raised in argument from within and clenched his jaw, Tygra was not alone. Wrethan pulled up just shy of the doorway; he couldn't just run inside, his entrance had to be presented in the correct fashion. Wrethan's ears sifted out a score of Transhuman voices, all shouting over each other and he waited until it reached a fever pitch before stepping into the doorway.

Inside he beheld some twenty Brothers, all from various squads. They were gathered in a loose circle, facing inwards to where Tygra was standing with his metal arms raised as he called for order. Some Initiates had their helms off, others still hid their faces, but all seemed either angry or outraged. The argument continued on for a few moments, as the Brothers spat invective back and forth, but then someone spied Wrethan standing in the doorway, utterly still and silent. First one Brother went quiet, then another and another, then all turned to see what was going on and the argument faded into nothingness.

Wrethan knew each of them was wondering how long he had been standing there and exactly how much he had heard, but he gave them no hint as to his own intent. From the circle Tygra looked upon the Chaplain and said hesitantly, "Wrethan, what are you doing here?"

Wrethan's knew his skull helm presented a fearsome visage and he directed his fearful ire to the officer as he growled, "Tygra, you are neglecting your duties, you had better explain why you are not at your post."

Tygra's face betrayed a cunning gleam of calculation, measuring the mood of the room and then he boldly stated, "No point hiding it, we are discussing the current state of affairs and how poorly this Penitent Crusade is going. Ten years of worthless battles and we are no closer to this supposed redemption you preach of. This War of Faith is a worthless endeavour, one that will bleed us dry for no good cause. You and Erathor won't listen, so I say it is time to reconsider our order of battle."

Wrethan stepped fully into the room and as he did so he spied Brother Vandeem at the back, hiding his face under his helm. Wrethan wisely ignored his informant and growled, "You are plotting mutiny."

Tygra smirked slightly and said, "You are very quick to make accusations, but your authority is suspect. You claim to be our guide but you have no moral superiority among this Company. Why should we follow you, when another could lead us better?"

Wrethan's anger rose but he was surprised when another stepped forward, it was an assault marine named Taxell and he uttered, "You were the executioner of the True Believers, you killed more of our kin than anyone else, why should we follow you?"

Wrethan's eye noted nodding heads all around and he realised this feeling was more widespread than he had dreamed. The Chaplain's duty was to guide and mentor his brethren, but they were chafing at his stern leadership. Wrethan had taught them of the hard path to redemption, but that was a bitter pill to swallow. These Marines were looking for a leader who would provide easy answers, telling them things they wanted to hear. Doubt, the same as had plagued Erathor, was wearing at their souls, but where he had needed a soft touch these Brothers needed to be slapped down hard.

Wrethan squared up to Taxell and growled, "Do you wish me to recite your own sins?"

Taxell glared back and hissed, "I've done nothing compared to you."

Yet Wrethan's voice was as stone as he said, "I remember you, Taxell, I remember how you laughed as we slaughtered our blood-kin."

Taxell suddenly looked worried as he deflected, "It was war."

"You went beyond war," Wrethan accused him, "You revelled in it, you enjoyed proving your superiority, you delighted in slaughtering your own sworn Brothers."

Taxell couldn't hold the gaze of that skull-helm and his eyes fell to the floor as he said feebly, "I have atoned."

Wrethan leaned near to him and hissed, "Such sins cannot be brushed off so easily, not without enduring suffering and hardship. Tell me, do you think you have yet paid sufficient penance for your crimes?"

Taxell's voice became a whisper as his eyes filled with pain and he breathed, "No, I have not."

Wrethan's head turned and he passed his burning gaze over everyone else. Only guilty silence greeted him as the Brothers refused to meet his accusing glare, feet shuffled and hands fell limp, to an Astartes the equivalent of falling to their knees in shame. Yet one was not abashed, Tygra, who snarled, "Don't try to browbeat us, you are no better than we."

Wrethan faced him and said, "I am the worst sinner in this company, I have walked in darkness yet I cleave to the path that will lead us back to the light."

Tygra snorted, "You are a smug fool, one who will get us all killed. There is no redemption at the end of your path, only death. This War of Faith will be another pointless waste of time. We need to accept our lot; we need to start fighting to survive, instead of throwing our lives away for nothing."

Wrethan spat back, "You wish us to become renegades, that is Heresy."

"It's the only option we have!" Tygra snarled, "There will be no glorious welcome home for us. The Chapter will reject us; we all know it to be true. I say we stop chasing fantasies and start thinking of ourselves for once!"

Suddenly there was a sharp noise and Wrethan saw a Brother named Namion turn on his heel to march out of the hall, declaring his disdainful rejection of Tygra. Other faces looked uncertain and Wrethan knew Tygra had pushed them too far, despite everything these Marines still clung to the principles that they had defended all their lives.

The Chaplain seized upon that to address the room and announced, "I know you chafe at our penance, you long for the days of glory and righteousness to return. You want things to be as they used to be, you want to be proud of yourselves once more, but this is not the way. Tygra offers a quick and easy path, yet it will bring only more shame to our names. Redemption is a far harder road to walk, but that is how it should be, only through hardship and suffering can we atone for our sins, only through pain and self-sacrifice can we reclaim our honour."

"Honour?!" Tygra spat, "The Chapter will never accept us home, nobody will ever know of our honour."

"We will know!" Wrethan shouted with all his ire, "That is the essence of honour, it is not what others think of us, it is how we view ourselves. Our honour cannot be taken, only cast aside; it is part of us, as fundamental to our nature as our gene-seed. Until the moment of our last breath we can yet be redeemed, even a man who has nothing can yet lay down his life for the Emperor."

Tygra sounded uncertain as he muttered, "You peddle fantasies."

Yet Wrethan lifted his head and pronounced, "Death is nothing to an Astartes, not when he has a principle to fight for. Would any among you turn down the opportunity to die being proud of himself, rather than live forever in shame?"

There was a scuffle of movement as one Brother turned for the door, then another and another. Each Initiate turning their backs as they accepted Wrethan's words and in moments the hall emptied, leaving the pair alone. Tygra's head fell and he said, "You win this round Wrethan."

Yet Wrethan rebuked him, "This was not a fight with a winner and a loser. You have let doubt enter your soul but it is my duty to save you from it."

Tygra snorted, "You and Erathor lead, that is the reality we face. I have no choice but to follow, but I know our honour will never be redeemed."

With that the thwarted officer strode out, leaving Wrethan in his wake. The Chaplain watched him go but then he said softly, "That is where you are wrong, absolution is still possible, it is out there waiting for us to find it. I shall not rest until we have earned our forgiveness, even if I have to drag every last one of us through hell to do it."


	15. Chapter 15

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 15**

Her armour hummed comfortingly, the familiar thrum of its power cell and servo motors reassuring her that it had been repaired. Its ceramite embrace layered her in protective plates while her bolter felt almost weightless in her power-assisted grip. Autosenses delivered tactical readouts directly to her eyes and blazed with targeting icons. The plate felt energised and alert, its Machine Spirit eager for the fray.

Justini had been blessed and briefed on their mission and was as ready as she had ever been to march to war. Yet she still felt off-kilter, her sense of well-being thrown into confusion by recent events. She could see her Sister's life-signs in her helm display, each one steady and sure. They were bound together as a squad and yet had never felt so distant and isolated from her. She was keeping secrets from them, a sin that must surely mark her out. Justini didn't understand how her Sisters couldn't see her guilt writ large, her conflicted heart and uncertain mind must be obvious to all. She had half-expected the consecrated holy water used in their blessing to scald when it touched a sinner, yet nothing had happened and nobody seemed to suspect a thing.

Justini's eye roamed over the line of Battle Sisters, finding Selosha marching in her own plate. The Sister looked impeccable in her restored armour, helm held high with pride and devotion. It was all a sham, Justini knew that all too well, Selosha was guilty of breaking her sacred vows, she had forsaken her chastity and was planning to abscond from the Order of the Valorous Heart. The enormity of those transgressions should surely crush her spirit and stop her heart, yet Selosha did not seem bothered at all.

Justini didn't know how she was doing it. In the few days since she had uncovered the secret Justini had been unable to focus on her duties, constantly distracted by her dilemma. She was lying and forsaking her oaths to the Order and the God-Emperor, the burden was tearing her apart. Yet she had promised Selosha that she would say nothing, her sworn duty was in conflict with the bonds between those who had fought and bled together and she could not resolve the paradox. Her vows demanded she report Selosha immediately but friendship compelled her to hold her tongue, she couldn't tell what was the proper course. She had sweated through the nights as she wrestled with her conscience, praying for divine guidance, but no revelation had been granted to show her the way. Her prayers had met with silence, the God-Emperor had forsaken her, it was the only answer that made sense to her, He had turned his face away from her.

Justini felt her mother's ring rubbing at her collarbone, being pressed into her skin by the weight of her armour. She usually left it in the chantry-barracks but recently had taken to wearing it everywhere. She did not know who her mother had been but surely she would have known what to do, an officer must know what was right and what was wrong, she told herself. Perhaps if she wore the ring then the correct course would reveal itself to her. It was a foolish hope but it was all she had.

Suddenly her vox blared in her ear and she heard Praxi snap, "Justini, I'm talking to you!"

Justini started and said, "I hear you, you don't have to shout."

Beside her Praxi's helm turned slightly and she queried, "You've been distracted all morning, where's your head at?"

Justini shook off her malaise and said, "Do not concern yourself."

Praxi's gaze bored into her for a moment before she said, "I was asking you; why are we here and not in the spire?"

Justini lifted her head to take in the battlefield. Before them lay a large complex of bulky machinery and reinforced buildings. This was the Deep Core mine, a domain of the Adeptus Mechanicus, whose eldritch technologies dragged mineral wealth from the planet's mantle. The mine works lay outside of the Hive city proper, which had been founded centuries after this facility had been raised. Everywhere she looked arcane devices buzzed and vast pistons rose and fell rhythmically as ancient technologies continued to labour. Behind her rose the vast city wall, still illuminated by the flickering void shield and far away to her right lay the polluted shores of the ocean, which had once brought aquatic vessels from across the planet to the manufactories of Tethys. It seemed odd to Justini that the mine wasn't within the boundaries of the city but then the Mechanicus was an aloof and secretive organisation, loathe to share their mysteries. Plus the Deep Core Mines had their own separate void shield… well, they had before it had been seized.

Justini took it all in then said, "The Heretics took this place, we're here to take it back."

Praxi muttered, "I know that, but the fighting to reach the Temple of the Saviour Emperor rages on. The bulk of the army is fighting its way up the spire and we should be there with them. If this place was so important, then we should send the full might of the faithful, not a token force."

It was true, the taskforce sent to retake the mine works consisted of a half-dozen Battle Sister squads and a few thousand Fraters. A meagre army with only basic arms and no tanks. It had been deemed too risky to bring mechanised force in among the precious machinery of the mine works, the understanding needed to construct the hallowed archeotech having being lost millennia ago. Thus they had come with bolters and flamers, determined to drive the Heretics out no matter the cost in blood.

Justini was surprised when Selosha interjected, "The Heretics must know we are coming, we should be prepared to face Flesh-Golems."

Justini was baffled how Selosha's voice was so calm and level, yet Praxi replied without suspicion, "Let us pray not, I don't fancy facing a Spyder whilst being armed with nothing but bolters."

Resita added her voice, "We have the Holy Martyrs."

"Not many of them," Selosha muttered.

Suddenly Karna's voice cut through, "Cease your chatter, we are entering the facility. Orders are to sweep the area for Heretics. We are to take forty Fraters and secure the left flank." Justini was glad of the order and she shut out her misgivings, focusing on the task at hand. Her squad led a gaggle of Fraters and Missionaries between two tall buildings, stamped with the icons of the Omnissiah. She heard Resita mustering prayers to the God-Emperor, her scorn for the Martian's clockwork version of the Imperial cult causing her to growl. Justini for her part kept her eyes moving, sweeping constantly for threats, but none emerged as they headed deeper into the facility.

Justini muttered, "No resistance, maybe the Heretics fled when they saw we were coming."

"Don't count on it," Desity scorned, "This place is five miles long and five miles wide. The Heretics have plenty of places to hide."

The squad and their Fraters soon emerged into a nexus of roads, all splintered and cracked into rubble. It was surrounded on all sides by looming buildings and littered with overturned trucks and half-metal bodies. The fleshy parts had long decayed, the Tech-Priest having been slain years before when the war started. The mines had changed hands a dozen times since then but it was surprisingly intact, neither side wanting to damage the all-important machinery. Besides there was no shortage of blood to spend in reclaiming it. Justini raised her bolter high, wary of gun-nests positioned high above, yet when the attack came it was not from above but from below.

The Fraters were spreading out through the nexus, checking the overturned vehicles, when the ground shook and the broken Ferrocrete began to dance. Everybody staggered as a violent vibration ran through their legs, even power armour struggling to compensate for the heaving floor. Justini felt a shiver of dread run through her as she staggered, she had never encountered this before but she had heard tales of it, whispered stories of a particularly vicious and cunning breed of Flesh-Golem.

Unexpectedly there was a cry of distress, the Fraters screaming in terror as something tore its way out of the ground beneath their feet. One second Justini saw a group of people crying in fear and the next a pointed triangular head, sheathed in Plasteel burst out of the ground. Below it was a long, sinuous body, segmented like an overgrown maggot and covered in tiny hooks that pulsated in sequence, it driving it forward. The head split into three separate parts as it rose up, revealing a huge circular maw lined with writhing razor-sharp fangs that was so big it engulfed three Fraters in one gulp. Blood fountained high as the Fraters were chewed to ribbons by the fangs, then the head slammed shut and the creature vanished back into the dirt like it was never there.

Justini froze, sent into shock by the instant carnage but Karna was not incapacitated and yelled, "Mortis-Wyrm!" Screams arose as the Fraters panicked, the name conjuring images of one the Disciples' most feared killers. An ambush predator beyond compare, able to burrow through dirt, stone and steel as easily as soft mud. They stalked the undercity and districts surrounding the Hive spire, picking off isolated knots of Imperials and then vanishing without a trace, but never had they been seen outside the boundaries of the City wall.

Desity was shouting, "Stand absolutely still, they hunt via vibration!" but the Fraters were not listening. Their fragile courage snapped and they turned to run in all directions, many trying to climb to safety. Justini cursed under her breath, the Fraters were fearless when they thought they were winning, throwing their lives away without a thought, but when confronted by unexpected reversals their morale shattered. Justini saw a few people climbing up the sides of a toppled cargo-8 but the vehicle quivered as the Mortis-Wyrm surfaced beneath it. People went flying as the truck rolled over and the great head yawned wide to swallow more of them. It tore a pair of Fraters to bits but even as it did so bolter rounds began to impact its flanks, blasting craters into the thick hide. Justini started as she saw her Sister's advancing with bolters blazing and Praxi yelled, "Blast it Justini, get into the fight!"

Justini realised she had been standing dumbly as people died and hastily snatched up her bolter. Rounds erupted from her weapon, tearing chunks of the Mortis-Wyrm away but it was already retreating back underground, avoiding the worst of their fire. There was a moment of silence then it burst forth again, snatching up a running woman twenty feet away. It moved like lighting through the dirt, blasting upwards to snatch the Frater, then diving back down before anyone could draw a bead on it.

The creature disappeared and Karna yelled, "Hold! No movement, stay still." Justini froze, locked into stillness. Fear and adrenaline surged within her and she tried to breathe calmly, but her thundering heartbeat roared in her ears, louder than the pealing of cathedral bells and her eyes darted from place to place, searching for the smallest hint as to where it would strike next. Fraters were panicking all over, running to and fro, surely it would take them next. Yet a sickening vibration told another story.

"Move!" Karna yelled as the ground erupted beneath them, the Mortis-Wyrm exploding from the dirt at their feet. Justini threw herself aside as the ground lifted up to send her flying. She hit the dirt and rolled over, fumbling with her bolter as she tried to face the Flesh-Golem. She brought up her weapon only to be confronted by a huge maw descending upon her, the gaping jaws parting to swallow her whole. She could see the hundreds of fangs within twitching in anticipation and with a surge of horror she realised that she could see the stitching where the bodies of human beings had been sewn together to make this abomination. Death loomed over her, falling with inexorable slowness, but at the last second another force intervened.

From the side a tiny metal ball flew forth, spinning ever so gently in the air. It arced gracefully toward the Mortis-Wyrm, descending with deceptive slowness. It brushed the thick hide and then erupted into a spray of blazing fire, spilling incandescent phosper everywhere. The Mortis-Wyrm shrieked as flames engulfed its hide, shaking and wailing as the blessed touch of flame covered it. Its great head rose up high as thrashed about but it could not extinguish the flames, not like this. With a great shudder the Flesh-Golem dove back underground, pulling its bulk under the suffocating dirt to escape the flames. The ground poured over its head as the jaws slammed shut, then fell still as the creature fled.

Justini was gasping for breath as she stared at the spot where the Mortis-wyrm had disappeared and then a pair of black boots stomped over and she looked up to witness Selosha saying, "I keep on saving your life."

Justini exhaled slowly as she realised the threat had passed, she pulled her self to her feet as she asked, "Did we kill it?"

"No such luck," Selosha replied, "We drove it off though, by the God-Emperor's grace."

Justini had no idea how to react to that but Karna was already shouting fresh orders, "That was only one of them, more reports of attacks are coming in over the vox. We need to get back to the main force, this is far from over!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 16**

The streets and avenues were filled with heaving bodies, desperate Fraters grappling with hordes of drug-addled fanatics. They clawed and stabbed at each other with desperate courage, both sides trapped in the crush of the melee and unable to advance or retreat. So they fought for all they were worth, as Missionaries cried out verses from sacred texts, trying to make themselves heard over the din. Through that madness the Flesh-Golems rampaged, heedless as to whether they were spilling the blood of friend or foe. They tore through the heaving scrums without care, leaving trails of red ruin in their wake. Set against them the Sisters of Battle stood firm, their weapons blazing brightly. They met the profane with songs of righteousness, their psalms lending courage to the Fraters around them.

Justini saw it all as her squad raced back to the heart of the fray, seeing the Imperials fighting tooth and nail against the worst horrors the foe could throw at them. Everywhere she looked brave men and women were laying down their lives for victory and she was determined to add her fury to the fray. Before her the avenue came to an abrupt halt, breaking out into a wide boulevard, set between rows of perfectly square buildings. The road was filled with bodies, jostling for space as they hacked and tore each other to bits. The noise of it was incredible, even with autosenses, and the smell permeated her breathing grill, clogging her nostrils with the sharpness of blood and the stench of bowels opening in death.

Karna came to a screeching halt and yelled, "Pick your targets and fire!" The squad obeyed without hesitation, lifting their bolters and letting rip. A torrent of bolts blasted into the nearest Flesh-Golems, catching them in the flank. Justini targeted a rumbling Man-Mower, blowing chunks of it away with mass-reactive rounds. She aimed for the join of the body to a leg and the resulting damage managed to make the thrashing creature stumble, its mechanical arms waving at the empty sky. It was only momentarily disorientated, but that was enough for a nearby squad of Dominions to wheel about and let rip with melta-guns, liquefying hide and metal with sub-fusion rays of heat.

Beside her Resita was blowing random Buzz-wings from the sky and shouting, "The God-Emperor condemns you!"

Praxi fired full-auto at a bounding Hell-Geist and bellowed, "She really hates those things!"

"Don't we all," Justini yelled as she added her firepower to her Sister's.

Together they took the Flesh-Golem apart with concentrated torrents of bolts, but even as they did so the ground beneath rumbled in an all-too-familiar way. Desity barked, "The Mortis-Wyrm, it followed us!"

"Evade!" Karna yelled but Justini was already in motion.

The ground beneath them erupted upwards as the triangular head broke the surface but Justini had cleared the site and was backing away as she blasted it with her bolter. Unfortunately she had nearly exhausted the clip firing at the Hell-Geist and after only a few shots her bolter clunked dry. The Mortis-Wyrm seemed to sense her distress and lunged for her, jaws gaping, but Justini reacted on instinct and grabbed a grenade from her belt. Countless hours on the assault course made it automatic to pull the grenade free, pop the pin and toss the orb underhand at the foe. It sailed clear and free, spinning in the air and promptly disappeared right down the cavernous maw.

The Mortis-Wyrm froze as if in shock and then the Phosper grenade detonated, filling its insides with fire. Justini's jaw fell as it reared upwards, flames spilling from its open maw as it broiled alive from the inside out and the seams over it ripped open to spew forth fire. A thick burp of black smoke vomited out of its mouth, then it keeled over and slammed onto the ground and turgid orange ooze began to seep out of its pores. Justini was stunned by her own actions, she had reacted on reflex and was still trying to process what had just occurred, but the roar of bolters quickly brought her back to the moment.

Around her the battle raged on, with both sides committing acts of unspeakable violence. The squad was blasting away ferociously and Selosha was yelling, "Die fiends! Die!"

Karna ripped apart a pair of merely human Heretics with her chainsword and cried back, "Fight on Sisters! He is watching us this day, sing your praises and give thanks for His protection."

Justini wasn't convinced the God-Emperor would shield her anymore but she hastily ejected her spent clip and reached for a fresh one. As she did so she spied a Spyder advancing, its stubber chattering and its claws snatching Fraters to crush them in iron claws. The hefty Flesh-Golem was wracking ruin in a wide circle about itself and the Fraters seemed unable to slow it down at all. But then a pair of Holy Martyrs arose among the packed ranks, running hard for the blasphemy set against them. They beat a path through the heaving scrum of bodies, fighting to get nearer their foe and so trigger their suicide vests, but the crowd was dense and slowed their passage while the Flesh-Golem was far from helpless.

Its bulbous lightning-gun spun about and let slip a volley of black energies, arcing torrents of profane power that caught the Fraters ten feet away. The men screamed as their bodies were electrocuted, charring their skin and burning their nerves to ash, but their agony was cut short as the volley overloaded the triggers on their vests and set off the demolition charges prematurely. Thunder was born among the packed ranks of Fraters, a massive fireball arising in their midst that picked up men and women and scattered them like leaves even as it ripped them limb from limb.

Even from the other side of the boulevard Justini felt the blast wave beating at her, rocking her back on her power armoured boots. The Fraters were not so protected and fell in droves, blasted off their feet as their eardrums burst and their eyes bled. A massive hole had been blown in their ranks and they were wide open for the killing blow. The entire battle hung in the balance and Justini knew the moment upon which the day would turn was upon them. The Fraters were down and only the Sisters had any hope of stopping the Flesh-Golems, for they were all that was left.

Justini finished slotting in her clip and looked about for a clear shot but as she did so a ripple ran through the fallen crowds. It started as a sudden pause among the Fraters, men and women freezing up without warning. The ripple jumped from soul to soul, passing amongst them like the swelling of the sea in a great storm. Fear and dread became apparent on every face, jaws quivering and bladders emptying as a terrible sense of doom swamped over the fight. The Flesh-Golems were not slow to exploit the sudden paralysis of the Imperials, ploughing into them with fangs and blades flashing to spray blood high. Yet not one person reacted to the carnage, everybody locked into a state of utter dread.

Justini she didn't understand what was happening, but then the effect reached her and swept her up in its embrace. She felt an icy hand seize her spirit, crushing her mind and soul with the chill of numbing fear. Her body swayed as if stuck by a fierce wind and her hands grew so numb she couldn't feel her bolter anymore. Her soul cowered as a depthless sense of foreboding whelmed up within her, a primal instinct screaming that a great predator was inches away and only utter stillness could prevent it from seeing her. All her hours of training, her instilled discipline and rigid faith were made meaningless. This was the primordial terror of the hunted; a race memory so ancient that its touch would reduce the bravest of men to cowering primates. Raw, undiluted fear consumed Justini and locked into position, leaving her unable to move.

Then she saw it.

Coming down the length of the boulevard was a towering Flesh-Golem. It stood ten foot high and walked on eight stiff legs, which rose and fell in sequence to propel it forward. The body of it was a fused mass of lumpy flesh, riddled with cancers and the brands of Chaos while below its bulk hung three fleshy bags with indistinct forms within. It had no discernible means of seeing or otherwise sensing its environment, yet it strolled along like it was utterly aware of all that transpired. Compared to the other Flesh-Golems it seemed no more hideous or revolting than the average and yet its presence radiated sheer horror, an aura of purest dread surrounding it like a void shield. Justini's throat went dry and her heart raced at the very sight and in a tiny isolated part of her mind her own voice shrieked, "Psyren!"

The Psyren swayed forward with leisurely ease, unhurried in its movements, as if the battle was already won. It seemed defenceless, yet not one hand was raised against it, nor a shot fired in its direction, for all nearby were locked into paroxysms of fright, sheer terror rendering all immobile. The Psyren's movement made the bags beneath it sway from side to side, the human bodies held within cocooned in a fleshy prison. They were captive Psykers, bound and ensorceled to generate an aura of heart-stopping terror that the Psyren could direct like a weapon.

As the Psyren closed the Fraters wailed, crying out like babes in arms. Many wept or beat their hands on their heads as to drive out the primal fear but their efforts were for nought. They rolled on the ground and shrieked in terror, even as the other Flesh-Golems fell upon them and tore them to shreds. Many of those who avoided such a fate died anyway, their hearts seizing and aneurysms blowing blood vessels in their brains, while others grinned and giggled as their sanity shattered, retreating into the bliss of madness. One man even sat up and calmly put his lasgun in his mouth, then placidly blew his own brains out, rather than endure such sorrow.

Justini was no Psyker but she could feel the Psyren's psychic attack passing over the crowd, directed and honed to a razor's edge. It used terror and dread as a weapon, annihilating the minds of anyone it chose, cutting out the very heart and soul of the Imperial faithful. Then the Psyren's attention fell upon Justini and her legs gave way as she fell to the ground in a clatter of plate. Her soul wailed and her bladder emptied while her weapon fell from her grip and she tasted the tang of blood as her nose bled profusely under her helm. In her mind she felt psychic knives bite deep, empowering every suppressed memory, bringing forth every childhood terror and quashed misgiving she had ever had. All of her fears and all of her doubts, all at once.

Justini screamed as she relived every terrible moment of her life. She was a crying child in the Schola Progenium, tormented by the thought that her mother had never loved her. She was a shivering acolyte, holding midnight vigil by laying naked on the cold chapel floor, convinced that she would prove to be unworthy of joining the Sororitas. She was a trainee labouring over the assault course, feeling the unsympathetic gaze of the instructors judging her. She was novice Sister, fighting Flesh-Golems for the first time, convinced that she was about to die. She was a veteran Sister, seeing her squadmates torn apart by rampaging monsters, while she screamed in denial. She was a lying sinner, keeping the truth from her Order, knowing that she had forsaken her own vows and turned from the Emperor's Light. That more than anything else clawed at her soul, the God-Emperor was no longer with her, He had withdrawn His protection. She was unworthy in His sight and so He had cast her aside.

Justini couldn't breathe, her lungs were hyperventilating and her brain was going woozy from lack of oxygen. Her heart thundered in her chest, pounding at her ribs so hard that it felt like it was trying to break free of her body. A tiny corner of Justini's mind tried to make itself heard, screaming that this wasn't real, that the Psyren was making her think this way but she could make no impression upon the mountain of fear weighing down upon her. She couldn't fight this and she couldn't endure for long, not like this. The raw visceral terror of the Psyren's power had her in its grip and it seemed the only escapes were to retreat into madness or endure in agony until her body broke.

The world darkened before her eyes but Justini could just make out the shape of a Hell-Geist looming over her, its jaw opening to tear at her body. Justini wept unrestrainedly, knowing that death had come for her. She was doomed and the God-Emperor would send her spirit from his side, casting her out for her sins. The only question left was if she would die of a heart attack first or live long enough to feel herself being torn to shreds.


	17. Chapter 17

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 17**

Cries of fear and dread rose unto the murky sky, the screaming filling the streets with a high pitched wailing. The Fraters wept as the psychic attack washed over them, obliterating any trace of hope and filled every heart with utter despair. Many among them fell limp and still, their hearts failing from sheer terror as the power of the Psyren snuffed out their lives. For those who yet resisted there was no respite, the Flesh-Golems dove among the weeping mass of men and women, devouring and dicing any people they found. In moments the Fraters were cut down, leaving only the Sisters of Battle, whose armour meant they gain a second's reprieve, but only a second.

Laying upon her back Justini struggled to breathe, her body was beyond her control and all she could do was lay feebly as her heart thundered. She was propped up by the mass of her backpack but otherwise was totally helpless. Her soul was overflowing with fear and despair, the Psyren stirring her most primal terrors into a crippling black cloud that suffocated her thoughts and crushed her hope into nothing. She was too terrified to move or fight, she could not even pick up her bolter and were she able to then her first act would have been to put the barrel to her own head and end her torment.

Justini lay defenceless on the ground but her eyes beheld a Flesh-Golem looming over her, a Hell-Geist coming to end her life. The faceless creature seemed to savour the moment, jaws distending to reveal long fangs that would rip and tear her armour to shreds then feast on the meat beneath. She looked into that maw and saw her death and a part of Justini welcomed oblivion. Yet in a tiny part of her mind her own voice was screaming at her to hold on, because in the corner of her eye she had noticed something.

Justini's eyes were pointing skyward and she could just make out a most peculiar thing. The clouds had darkened and were rippling most strangely, as if something were passing through them at tremendous speeds. Then something tiny shot out of the bottom cloud layer, a blot of dark metal that plummeted earthwards, trailing fire and smoke. Justini barely had a second to take in its bulky tear-drop shape and the reinforced hatches around its flanks before it hit the ground.

A second before impact retro-rockets ignited, blazing trails of fire that scorched the street with purging flames and set Heretics and Flesh-Golems alight. The object's velocity slowed by a fraction but it still hit the world with the force of an artillery round, shaking the ground in all directions. Justini felt herself being picked up and thrown back down by the impact, tossed aside as effortlessly as a rag doll. Even the Flesh-Golems were staggered by the violence of the impact, left stumbling as they tried to get their many legs back under them.

The impact had blown a huge crater into the street and the object sat cooling for a second as the earth settled, but it was a mere moment of respite, for half a dozen more objects just like it fell a heartbeat later. Blazing flames filled the street, as impacts threw bodies aside and sent Heretics to their knees, each impact a fresh hammerblow to the world. One object landed slightly off-course and plunged into a Ferrocrete wall, causing the edifice to topple over in a tide of rocks that buried Heretics in an avalanche of rubble. Fifty Heretics died in the first moments of the arrival, and the doors hadn't even opened yet.

Justini knew she should recognise these things but the despair filling her held blocked understanding. Yet the enemy did not seem so handicapped, they spun to face the intruders in their midst, presenting weapons in readiness to unleash hell, but they could not have been ready for what followed next. Explosive bolts detonated all around the hatches' edges, sending the doors flying outwards, then from within flew torrents of screaming bolt-rounds. The noise of their passage was much deeper than Justini had ever heard before, the calibre of the weapons beyond her own bolter and the fusillade scythed Heretics apart with contemptuous ease. Enemies were ripped asunder under the concentrated barrage, torn to shreds by the heavier munitions while Buzz-wings fell from the skies like raindrops, ended by inhumanly accurate fire. The Heretics reeled under the onslaught, forced back by the sheer volume of fire and then the true threat emerged.

From the dark interior of the cooling shells charged giants, clad in thick Ceramite plate that was emblazoned with Imperial Aquilas and crisp purity seals. In their hands were bolters so heavy that a grown man would struggle to lift one and their shoulders were covered by thick and broad pauldrons. Their armour was blue and grey while their eyes shone redly, reflecting the fires of war as they charged into battle with a speed that belied their enormous bulk.

Justini saw the newcomers enter the fray and the sight caused a new emotion to stir within her. The black clouds of anguish suffocating her soul were penetrated by a single, brilliant ray of hope, one tiny beam of light in the midnight black of her despair. Her eyes beheld a miracle made manifest and in her mind she let slip a joyous cry. The Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines had come and that must mean the God-Emperor had not forsaken her. He had seen her plight and sent forth His Angels of Death.

With inhumanly deep roars the Space Marines threw themselves at the Heretics, cleaving them apart with great blows of their knives. Filthy, emancipated wretches were decimated by the shining avatars of the God-Emperor's will, their pathetic return blows ringing off the ceramite without drawing a drop of blood. None could stand before the onslaught and in moments the Space Marines had ripped a path deep into the packed masses of foes. Their weapons smote all within reach and Justini saw a gloriously decorated warrior with metal legs lift two blazing lightning-claws to the sky and cry, "The enemy thinks they can stand before us Brothers, make them grasp the depth of their mistake!"

Great was the slaughter but the foe wasn't done yet, for the Flesh-Golems rallied and finally charged into the fray. Justini gasped as a bounding Hell-Geist flew at the one who had spoken, its autocannon firing and jaws gaping wide. The Space Marine saw it coming and stood firm, rounds pinging off his plate as it closed. He held utterly still as it fell upon him but then his lightning claws moved like quicksilver, slicing the air with two upwards cuts. The Hell-Geist came apart around him, diced into a dozen chunks that fell on the ground in steaming ropes, leaving him standing amid a pile of entrails.

Elsewhere a Man-mower barrelled forwards, spinning blades lashing out in all directions. It charged into the midst of the Space Marine formation but it was intercepted by a warrior with metal arms and a roaring eviscerator in his grip. He crouched down in a guard position and Justini watched in disbelief as the Man-mower bore down upon him, yet at the last second he exploded upwards, thrown high by the power of his genhanced legs. The spinning blades missed him by a millimetre and then he fell blade first, right onto its back. The screaming Eviscerator chewed into the fleshy mass of the foe, ripping the hide asunder as blood fountained high. The warrior's feet landed firmly on its back and he redoubled his efforts, driving the weapon ever further and further into the heaving skin and metal, pushing so heavily that the weapon tore out the other side and cleaved the Man-mower in twain.

Justini saw the Flesh-Golem's charge falter as they met an immovable bastion of ceramite, the creature's primitive brains unable to process the concept of a foe who did not cower before them. They paused for a moment as they struggled to adapt and in that instant the second wave of Space Marines joined the fray. From the sky fell twenty warriors with flaming jump packs and roaring chainswords in hand. They dropped not as the graceful Seraphim of the Sororitas, soaring laterally with bolt pistols hammering, but rather as heavy missile strikes, using their own weight and momentum as weapons. They slammed home with bone-shattering force, crushing Flesh-Golems with the weight of their landing, killing the monsters before their boots even touched the ground.

Justini's heart was beating not for fear anymore but for joy, her soul rejoicing at seeing the enemy broken by the Emperor's Finest. Yet the Flesh-Golems were not yet beaten, for the Psyren still held the field. Justini saw the loathsome beast rise high on its stiff legs and she felt its power gathering, then it let loose a lash of utter horror and despair. The intensity of it washed over the battlefield, making Justini weep as her nascent hope was overwhelmed. This was the most potent and hateful despair she had ever known, pure undiluted grief so suffocating no mortal could endure it, and it wasn't even aimed at her.

The psychic assault lashed over the Space Marines, clawing at their mental defences and even they were shocked by its power. Transhuman warriors were knocked back by purest anguish, forced to withdraw before the potency of the warp. Space Marines, the most stern and redoubtable warriors' mankind had ever known, were actually forced to take a step backwards. They fought to resist but the power was too much, weighing their limbs down with chains of sorrow.

Yet there was one soul who resisted.

From among the ranks of blue ceramite stepped forth a warrior in black, who had a skull-helm and a golden mace in one hand. He took one great step into the face of despair and his voice was clear and steady as he cried, "I know no darkness!" The Psyren seemed to flinch, its confusion seeping into the psychic attack that battered at Justini's mind. She felt the horror blanket her soul, yet underneath that was awe as the black-clad warrior took another laborious step and roared, "I know no despair!"

The Psyren panicked at the impossible resistance, it closed its focus and poured everything it had into one concentrated blast. The air itself seemed to rattle, shaken to the atomic level by unfettered psychic power. A hurricane wind flew on the tails of the projected grief and suffering, battering at the warrior in an attempt to crush his soul but the giant forced another impossible step through the onslaught and cried, "I know no defeat!"

Justini felt her despair lifting as the Psyren drew everything it had into one focused spear of anguish, drowning the lone Space Marine in pure sorrow, but his only response was to lift his weapon high and cry, "For He is with me!" The Psyren skittered backwards before this oncoming juggernaut but it was too late, for the warrior was relentless. With one last effort he hurled himself through the storm of grief and terror as he roared, "And I Know No Fear!"

The black-clad warrior disappeared under the Psyren then there was a flash of brilliant red light and the Flesh-Golem exploded, ripped apart in a burst of black and red flames. Thunder rolled and lightning blazed as the psychic power was torn from its foundation and shot into the sky, as pieces of charred meat and scorched metal rained down, showering all in a disgusting haze. Justini felt the black clouds crushing her spirit evaporate, burnt away by the fierce sun of hope and the pure elation of victory. Her limbs at last came back under her control and she rolled over and managed to get her knees under her. She pushed herself upright and looked upon the Angels of the God-Emperor and her voice let slip a cry of joy as she beheld the triumph first-hand.

The Space Marines had laid waste the Flesh-Golems and the street was clear, yet more impossibly she saw the black-clad one walking back to his Brothers, calmly wiping gore off his skull-helm, leaving it red and bloody. The gathered Space Marines greeted him with cheers and cries of, "Glory to Wrethan!

Yet he seemed as unperturbed as a drill-instructor on an assault course as he called out, "My thanks Brothers, but your praises should be directed to Him on Terra for it is by His will that we have triumphed. Yet this day is far from over there, are yet foes to root out but we shall leave not one Heretic alive!"

Justini watched in awe as the Space Marines charged from the street, heading deeper into the Deep Core Mines. They seemed eager for the fray and she didn't doubt that they would lay waste to anything they encountered. Without conscious thought her hand found her bolter and she held it tight as she rose to her feet, her heart demanding that she stay close to them. Around her the other Sisters did the same, all the survivors sharing an unspoken determination to follow the Space Marines. They didn't know where the Astartes were going but every one of them was resolved to be at their side in the coming fray.


	18. Chapter 18

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 18**

The fighting raged all around, Heretics throwing themselves mindlessly at the newcomers in their midst. Behind them Flesh-Golems raged, their bestial fury lending them savagery beyond mortal bounds. Their feral majesty would have torn the heart from any mortal army, but their opponents were far from mortal. The Space Marines had come, the bloodthirsty angels of the Imperium, whose passage left ruin in their wake.

Justini could see the Astartes ahead, fighting hard among the towering buildings of the Mechanicus' minework. She was moving swiftly, keeping her weapon close to her chest as the Sisters pursued the Space Marines. There were significantly fewer left Sisters than there had been before the Psyren attack, their numbers decimated by the horror of its psychic lash. Some had died to Flesh-Golems, others to heart attacks and a few had blown their own brains out. Even those who had survived were shaken badly, their souls scarred by the lingering darkness. Fear and dread bubbled in Justini's soul but it could not withstand the burning torch of her hope. The Space Marines had come, so long as she could see them then the darkness would not take her. Justini suspected she was not the only one who felt this way, all the Sisters seemed desperate to remain near the Angels of Death, pursuing the Transhuman warriors for the sake of their own sanity as much as any tactical doctrine.

Unfortunately keeping pace was proving troublesome, the Space Marines were heavily engaged, fighting blade to claw, but still the Sisters were barely able to keep up. Justini had been amazed by the Astartes' physical prowess, by their strength and lethality, but now she was amazed by their strategic acumen. The Space Marines had split up into five-man squads and were purging the mineworks section by section. They swept and cleared with perfect coordination, beyond anything she had seen in all her years of war and each squad was always in exactly the right place to support their fellows. The Heretic masses were being chopped into manageable groupings by the Ceramite clad-giants, driven before the Emperor's Finest, right into the waiting guns of their fellows, who always seemed to be in position ahead of time. Where knots of Heretics dug in, waiting with heavy weapons prepared, pairs of Astartes would break off and flank them, eliminating threats faster than she could have believed possible.

Justini ran down a roadway strewn with dismembered bodies and as she did so she spied a Hell-Geist lurking in a narrow side-street. She levelled her bolter and took careful aim, but a heartbeat before she could pull the trigger a torrent of weighty bolt-rounds flew up the street from the other end and blitzed it into oblivion. Justini pulled back in surprise and spluttered, "How did they know it was there?!"

"Centuries of practice," Desity grumbled as they resumed their pursuit, "Each one of these abhumans was fighting wars decades before you or I were born."

Karna was running beside them and barked, "Stop talking and move faster, we need to get into the fight!"

Suddenly a Space Marine pulled up before them, holding out an open palm. Justini screeched to a halt as Karna looked upwards and called out, "Good Sir, we are here to aid you. Where can…"

Yet the Space Marine only barked, "Move!" as he shoved her aside and fired his bolter thrice over her shoulder.

Justini spun about to see a trio of Buzz-wings hurtling around a corner, lasrifles gleaming in preparation to fire. Three Buzz-wings came at them, but three bolt-rounds intercepted them, each round landing in the exact centre of their faces. The chattering horrors blew apart and Justini gasped, "How did you…" Yet the Space Marine had already turned away and was jogging back into the fray, leaving the Sisters standing about slack-jawed. Justini started to feel the uncomfortable sensation that the Sisters were little more than an afterthought in this battle, lending no real contribution to the fight, or perhaps even slowing the Astartes down.

Karna seemed to be thinking the same thing for she spat, "Nobody leaves us out of the fight, come on, we have to help." Justini followed her towards onwards and spied the decorated Marine with the metal legs, who was peering down another street. The gaggle of Sisters ran up to him but he ignored them as the battle raged on. Justini saw further down the street that a Spyder was clanking forward, its black-lightning gun lashing out at the surrounding buildings. Five Space Marines ran before it, firing their bolters backwards in sporadic bursts as they enacted a tactical withdrawal. The Flesh-Golem pursued eagerly, firing its weapons over and over as it tried to land a telling blow and it closed the distance rapidly.

Justini saw that the squad was in trouble and blurted out, "They need help!"

Karna urged, "Let us lay down suppressing fire for them."

Yet the Space Marine's helm swivelled slowly towards them, as if had only just noticed the Sister's presence. He looked at them curiously, then stated flatly, "That is unnecessary."

Suddenly a flurry of missiles shot out of the surrounding buildings, four krak warheads slamming into the Spyder from all directions. Thunder pealed loudly, followed by a shower of bloody gobbets and broken metal parts as the Spyder was torn to shreds. It had been a trap, Justini realised, the retreating Marines had lured it into a pre-planned position, where heavy weapon troopers could destroy it with ease.

The Space Marine was already calling out new orders, "Captain Erathor to Devastator squad Namion, confirming a clean kill. Link up immediately with Tactical Squad Juno and advance into grid sector 453-654, Codex pattern Theta-Three."

Karna faced the Space Marine directly and said, "Captain, where can we help?"

This Erathor looked at her squarely and said, "You can help by remaining here, out of our way."

Justini was taken aback by the casual dismissal of the Sister's talents but it was Resita who decried, "Stand aside?! How can any loyal servant of the God-Emperor be expected to sit idle while His foes yet draw breath?"

Erathor actually sounded amused as he replied, "Well said. As you will, there are enemy heavy weapon positions two streets west of this location; deal with them."

Erathor didn't wait for a response as he turned south and strode away. The Sisters watched him go with a mix of surprise of disbelief, yet all of them were determined to make some contribution to this fight, after the horror of the Psyren they had to exercise their darkness somehow. Karna was the only surviving Sister Superior so gathered the score of Sororitas together and called, "You heard him, let's go!"

The gaggle of Sisters began marching west but Justini wondered, "If the Space Marines are headed south, why are we going west?"

Desity muttered, "Because they don't expect us to meet any real resistance in that direction. This is busy work, to keep us out of their way."

"Enough!" Karna barked, "A soldier does not question when called to war. We have a foe to defeat, give thanks for the opportunity the God-Emperor has given us!"

The march resumed but Selosha mused, "Are… are we taking orders from the Astartes now?"

Praxi concurred, "Doesn't the Ecclesiarchy have some pretty strong opinions on our chain of command?"

"You are taking orders from me," Karna snapped, "Now focus on the foe."

Justini and the others obeyed, marching west between single-story buildings, with their bolters held ready. She was on a hair-trigger for threats but no ambushes manifested and they soon reached the objective and emerged onto another wide boulevard. As expected there were a dozen heavy-weapon points, autocannon and lascanons, hidden behind piles of sandbags and all pointing the wrong way. They were operated by Heretic crews, who as customary seemed oblivious to anything not directly in front of them. Justini knew from long experience such crews wouldn't react to anything they had not been specifically ordered to expect; they had all the personal initiative of a servitor. They didn't even stir as the Sisters emerged from an unexpected direction and mowed them down with short bursts of fire.

"That was easy," Selosha declared.

But Karna commanded, "Be sure, sweep the area for more foes."

Justini and the others obeyed, checking the area thoroughly. They swept the buildings nearby, clearing the frontages where more traps could have been laid but finding nothing. Still they were methodical in their search; there was no telling where an ambush could be secreted. To clear the street took almost half an hour and after a while the sounds of distant warfare faded to nothing. Justini kept her mind on the task at hand, pushing the darkness of the day's events aside. The Space Marines had come; she told herself, the God-Emperor had shown His favour, that was all any loyal Imperial citizen needed to know.

After a while Karna recalled the Sisters and declared, "This area is secure, we should fall-back and regroup with the Astartes. Let's head back to their landing ground, without their vox cyphers we will have to do this in person."

Justini and the others followed as Karna led them back, passing various scenes of carnage as they did so. The roadways were littered with dismembered bodies and broken Flesh-Golems, evidence of the Astartes' handiwork. The slaughter was as terrifying as it was impressive, the sheer power and skill of the Space Marines proving awe-inspiring to any who understood the realities of war.

Justini cast her eyes about and commented, "I don't see any dead Astartes."

"What?" Praxi asked sounding confused.

"No dead Astartes," Justini repeated, "I don't think they lost a single man."

"Impossible," Desity admonished her, "They are impressive but they can't be that good, nobody is that good. They probably collected their dead for last rites."

Justini was pretty certain there had been no time for such niceties but fell silent as they walked. Yet Selosha remarked, "I don't recognise their colours, which Chapter are they from?"

"Unclear," Karna stated, "They certainly aren't local to this sector."

An awkward silence fell as the Sisters marched back to the original site of the Space Marine's arrival and sure enough they found the one called Erathor, who was talking to the black-clad one with the skull-helm. Karna doffed her helm as they closed and the Sisters did the same. Justini was instantly struck by the awful stench of battle, the blood and smoke, the aroma of scorched flesh and the sharpness of bowels voiding in death. Yet as they came close to the Transhumans there was also a trace of something unfamiliar, an odour of lapping powders, blessed oils and hormone-drenched sweat that was so potent it cut through the miasma and forced its way up the nose. There was also a vexing subsonic thrum in the air, causing the hairs on the back of her arms to stand up. It somewhat resembled the hum of her own power generator, but was far deeper and more pervasive, like the aural difference between the engine of a Cargo-8 and a Leman Russ tank. It was a constant drone, coming from the Space Marine's armour, just loud enough to keep pricking her awareness.

Karna marched right up to the pair and stood proudly as she announced, "Objective completed!"

Erathor's helm lowered slightly and he remarked, "Oh, it's you, that took you longer than I was expecting."

Justini was put back by that but Karna replied, "You could have left some more for us."

Erathor replied smugly, "Codex Astartes Vol XI, Chapter II, verse XXXIV: In battle hit first, hit hard, hit often."

Karna drew in a breath and said, "Be that as it may, the Adepta Sororitas officially thanks you for your aid. Yet I confess to being surprised by your arrival, Cardinal Pilates did not inform us that he had summoned you."

The other one turned his blood-stain helm towards them and growled, "The Astartes are not to be summoned like dogs, we are here at the behest of Him on Terra."

Karna swallowed nervously and said, "Still your aid was vital, without you the day would have been lost."

Erathor nodded at a nearby corpse of a Sister, whose head had been removed by her own bolter during the Psyren attack, and remarked, "This was never a fight for mortals, the reports did not do justice to the depth of the corruption on this world. Our presence is more desperately needed than we suspected, you were right to steer us here Chaplain Wrethan."

The one called Wrethan nodded and said, "This area is secured, we need to press on. We should liaise with the local high command and ascertain the current strategic situation."

Erathor replied, "I leave that up to you, go argue with fat priests while I fight a real war."

Justini didn't like his dismissive tone but Wrethan had already turned his attention towards them and said, "You will escort me to whoever is running this war."

"That would be Cardinal Pontius Pilate," Karna replied, "We must vox ahead and seek an audience with his Excellency."

"Be swift," Wrethan replied, "The situation has been permitted to deteriorate to an intolerable degree, I intend to address my concerns to this Cardinal directly."

Justini gulped at the note of menace in his voice and she was certain that the Cardinal wouldn't like the coming meeting. Still the presence of the Space Marines must bode well for the war in general, she reassured herself why else would the God-Emperor send them here. For the first time in years Justini dared to think that maybe the end of this war was at last in sight. The Space Marines had brought more than strength and fury to Tethys, they had brought hope.


	19. Chapter 19

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 19**

The Sword of Solitude tore a Frater apart with effortless grace, its ancient power field parting molecules as it passed through the man. The next one had his throat torn out by a lateral swipe and the ragged woman behind him was silenced by a thrust through the heart. All around Christof the ragged masses of the Imperial faithful threw themselves onto his blade, clawing at his armour with fingernails and blunt daggers. A few had lasguns in their hands but they proved no more effective, bayonets scoring off his plates doing little more than scratching the enamel.

In return Christof laid waste to the filthy masses, his skill with a blade surpassing anything they could hope to understand. He had been a Sword-Champion of the First Legion, gifted a Heavenfall blade for his superlative skill, and he had only grown more deadly since. He moved through the crowd of manic believers like a wind, destroying a mortal with every blow. It wasn't even particularly challenging, his breathing was calm and measured and his hearts were steady. In moments he had reduced this knot of Fraters to piles of red ruin and he casually fluttered the power field of his sword, to cleanse the blood off it.

Around him the machinery of the Deep Core mines laboured on, undisturbed by the fighting. Christof had anticipated the Imperial's counter-attack, their knee-jerk response being utterly predictable. He had also calculated that they would only send a token force, focusing their main thrust towards the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor. He was unconcerned for he had left sufficient forces to repulse their assault, while he led the defence of the true objective. He knew the limitations of his foe's thinking, the mindless dogma that had overrun the Imperium making them feeble-minded and slow, but even he was struggling to understand why they wasted all their efforts on strategically worthless objectives. This sham of an Imperium threw countless lives away for no good reason, while ignoring the most critical of assets. It was idiocy of the highest order but it worked in Christof's favour.

He spent a moment listening to the vox-bead in his ear, his Transhuman mind laying out the battlefield in moments. The Imperials were engaged around the northern perimeter of the mine works, battling against his slave army and the Flesh-Golems. They were fighting ferociously yet making little headway, save in one location. Along the largest boulevard the Sisters of Battle were forging forward, their fanatical devotion seeing them making progress in the face of stiff opposition. Christof had found the Sisters to be a vexing enigma, better armoured and more deadly than the common man, yet also far more blinkered and dogmatic, spending every spare moment worshipping a corpse on a throne. He couldn't understand how the Imperium had come to embrace such a paradoxical warrior order and he held that they represented everything that was wrong with the galaxy in this age. Still, they were a threat that had to be dealt with.

Christof opened his vox and ordered, "Redeploy Flesh-Golems to grid 434-111."

The mechanical voice of a Disciple came back to him, "It shall be done, Spyders are available."  
Christof thought about it and said, "Send them in and the Psyren too."

The Disciple of Ruin demurred, "We only have one available."  
"I gave you an order," Christof barked.

With that Christof snapped off his vox and walked on. He knew the Flesh-Golems were feral creatures, deploying them consisted mostly of pointing them in the right direction and letting them do whatever they will, few survived very long but they were replaceable. The Psyren however was a more deadly weapon, few in number and more precious, the psykers required to forge them were rare and difficult to obtain. Acquiring even one from Ferro Corde's menagerie had been difficult but worth the effort. Christof knew what they could do; he knew no mortal could withstand their psychic onslaught.

Christof was confident the Sister's advance would be crushed and turned his attention to seeking out more threats. Further down the street he spied Gwayne and Rauf, battling a Sister's squad, who had been riddled with bolter rounds. Their thin armour seemed odd to his eye, fitted to mortal frames and more ornately decorated, but it had proved a poor defence against concentrated bolter salvos and half the women had fallen already. Only two of them remained, trying to hold back the onslaught but failing. Christof couldn't help but note how awkward and jerky their movements were, without the benefit of a Black Carapace implant no mortal could interface with their armour in the way an Astartes could. The difference was glaring, the edge it lent the Transhumans spelling doom for any mortal foolish enough to face them. Christof increased his pace to intervene, but he needn't have bothered, the pair of Space Marines swiftly took the remaining Sisters apart, tearing the heads off with lateral sweeps of their combat knives. Christof slowed his pace but Rauf saw him coming and said, "You're too late, we got these ones."

Gwayne idly kicked a corpse and muttered, "Do they really think a suit of power armour makes one equal to an Astartes? Terra must be run by fools."  
"Nuns with guns," Rauf spat as he sheathed his knife, "The whole Imperium has gone insane."

Christof paused beside them and sheathed his sword as he remarked, "Terra's foolishness is none of our concern. The only thing that matters is that we can end these ones."

Rauf snorted, "That we certainly can, this assault was feeble."  
"Indeed," Christof concurred, "The counter-attack will be over in minutes, then we can begin planning our final offensive."

Gwayne sounded aggrieved under his helm as he muttered, "We shouldn't wait, we should drive into the heart of the Imperial camp and end them."

Yet Christof reassured him, "Patience, we move into the final phase of my strategy. We have the means of production and the resources we need. Ferro Corde can build an army of Flesh-Golems, large enough to sweep the Imperials aside, a few more months and this city will be ours. Then the planet, then the sector."

Rauf growled, "Are we conquering worlds for him now?"

Christof's eyes narrowed as he said, "I don't care if he builds an empire or dies in the dirt, but we have a deal. He has what we need and we shall fulfil our end of the bargain. Once we have what we want, we leave this pathetic war behind and go anywhere we want."

Suddenly there was a flash in the sky and a peal of thunder as something shot of the clouds above. All three snapped their heads upwards as they spied a flurry of dark blots hurtling down. Even without a helm on Christof's transhuman vision picked out the objects and he recognised them at once. His lips drew back over his teeth and he snarled, "Drop-pods, with Imperial markings."

"Legionnaires Astartes?" Gwayne spat angrily, "Here?"  
"Damn Ferro Corde," Rauf exclaimed, "We told him we needed better orbital surveillance."

Christof's eye tracked the drop-pods course and his mind calculated they were heading for the main battle in the boulevard. He didn't have to speculate what would happen when they got there, he knew exactly how Imperial Space Marines would fare set the rabble of the slaves and the feral Flesh-Golems. He casually removed the Flesh-Golems from his mental inventory of weapons, a shame about the Psyren but wasn't about to risk his life to intervene in that fight.

Unfortunately Gwayne seemed to disagree as he cried, "We need to get over there, before they can establish a foothold!"

Rauf however barked, "Don't be an idiot, there are enough pods to deploy a hundred of them and they are already engaged. Three against a hundred are odds I don't favour."

"You would have us run?" Gwayne snapped.  
Rauf retorted, "The Unforgiven have found us, we need to leave this planet at once."

Gwayne gripped his bolter tight and said, "I do not fear the Dark Angels."

"You should," Rauf rebuked him, "I've heard talk like that before, from other Fallen. They think they can fight the Unforgiven, they think they can trick or manipulate them or turn them against the Imperium. It always ends the same way, dead or dragged off to the stars for torture. I've lost too many comrades to their flensing knives, I say if they are here then we leave the planet at once, it's the only sane option."

Christof had remained silent during this but he finally spoke, "They are not Dark Angels, nor any of their kin from the Unforgiven."  
"What?" Gwayne started.

Christof explained, "They are engaging the Disciples in a full frontal assault, no hunter squads probing the wider area. The Unforgiven would have already sent huntsmen after us; this lot are concentrating only on the battle itself. Whoever this is, they aren't here to look for us, they may not even know we exist."

"Who are they then?" Rauf pondered.  
"Let's find out," Christof said.

With that he led the trio into the complex of buildings, passing by various dug-out heavy weapon positions. He knew this area well and took them to an elevated position, well-concealed in a grinding piston house. From the upper windows they had a clear view of the street below, able to see out, but remaining hard to spot, especially for someone in the heat of combat. Their army lurked below, the drugged slaves waiting by their guns while a few random Flesh-Golems gathered together. The trio silently waited as the battle drew nearer, patient and still. Their wait was brief, soon blue-clad warriors swept into view, an Assault Squad and a Tactical squad, sectioning the road and clearing it with consummate ease.

Christof noted their crisp, professional movements, the way the Tacticals would fix the foe leaving them exposed for flank attacks by the Assaults. It was rigid and unimaginative warfare, without flair or flamboyance, looking almost mechanical to his eye. A few Flesh-Golems tried to oppose the advance but they were taken apart in melee combat. Yet even then the Imperial Space Marines acted with calm detachment, never losing control in the way of a World Eater or Space Wolf, nor flashy like warriors of the Blood Angels or Emperor's Children. They lacked the pride of the Dark Angels and they did not fight with the hate of an Iron Hand, the obstinacy of a Death Guard or the speed of a White Scar. Instead their blows were precise and efficient, doing enough damage to end the threat and then moving onto the next without gloating, it was so very, very practical.

"Ultramarines," Christof whispered.  
Gwayne sounded uncertain as he mused, "Are you sure? I don't recognise their colours."

Rauf snorted under his breath, "They're probably one of those mongrel Successor Chapters; the XIIIth spawned hundreds of thin-blooded offshoots after the Great War. Christof's right, these lot are Guilliman's breed, so rigid and unimaginative, I can practically smell the polish on their plates, even from up here."

Gwayne asked, "Not Unforgiven, that is a relief. But they still outnumber us badly, what are we going to do?"

Christof answered, "We fall back and withdraw."  
"Retreat?" Gwayne spat incredulously, "You would give up the mines?"

"The mines are lost already," Christof replied, "We should not throw away our lives fighting for a lost cause. This lot may be Guilliman's dogs, but take a page from his Codex: if a position cannot be held then fall back to better ones."

Rauf said something then but his voice was drowned out as an Assault Marine hurtled by, jump-pack spewing rocket exhaust. He ducked back behind the window and hissed, "If we're going to leave then we should move immediately. If they follow his Codex then they will clear these buildings before long."  
"Agreed," Christof concurred, "Let's get out of here."

With that the trio drew back, disappearing into the shadows and leaving their army to be slaughtered by the Imperials. Christof led them down to the sub-levels, to where he knew there was an underground maintenance passage back to the Main Hive. Whenever he entered a new location he always made it a point to map out an escape route and the first thing he had done when planning his strategy was to mark out a dozen routes from the mine works back to the Spire.

He knelt in the dark basement and lifted up a large hatch but as he did so Rauf muttered, "Slaves and Flesh-Golems will be no match for Imperial Space Marines,

"He is right," Gwayne concurred, "This whole war has just tilted against us."

"Maybe we should leave after all," Rauf mused.

"No," Christof stated, "Not without our payment."

"But how will we combat this?" Gwayne asked, "There are only three of us."

Christof threw the hatch aside, revealing a dark pipe, ankle deep in brackish water. He dusted off his hands as he said, "Do not worry. First we must speak to Ferro Corde and convince him the situation has changed. As for the rest, I have a few ideas on how to counter these newcomers."

With that he dropped into the darkness, followed by his two comrades. Behind them the sounds of war died out as their army was taken to pieces, but they cared not. They left the mines behind, having not lifted a finger in its defence, but already plotting new stratagems to turn the war back in their favour.


	20. Chapter 20

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 20**

Wrethan followed a squad of Sisters back to their base, crossing the distance via Rhino then forced march. The journey was long and conducted in complete silence, the awed Sisters stealing glances at him the whole time. Wrethan did his best to ignore them, their reverential stares reminding him of a time when he had considered himself above the common man. Such thinking had led him astray, had torn his Chapter apart and condemned his comrades to a Penitent Crusade.

He focused instead on the base camp they were approaching, set somewhat up the slopes of the lower Hive spire. Above the base soared the majestic bulk of the city, a man-made mountain of metal, capped by a shimmering void shield. To the north stretched the slums of the city they had crossed, a mad confusion of tenements, warehouses and manufactories. It was filled with the masses of Fraters, along with what passed for their logistics and command structure. Wrethan had surveyed the infrastructure as they passed and determined that the Ecclesiarchy had less support than the most roughshod Guard army. The Frater's lives would be filled with privation and hardship, before an inglorious and insignificant death.

In the distance the mighty city wall loomed and beyond that the spaceport, from whence the Fraters flowed. Wrethan had studied the reports coming from Tethys before arriving in orbit and he knew every drop of water and morsel of food these people had was being shipped in via shuttle. Despite years of sacrifice the Ecclesiarchy had yet to secure any of the key strategic assets. Wrethan had been incredulous at the reports and had demanded a complete break-down of the history of this conflict via vox. The reply had stretched his disbelief, the sheer incompetence shown by the leaders of this War of Faith had been stunning, a fact he intended to address.

Wrethan's musings were brought up short by a woman in white plate armour. She was stern-faced and scarred, with grey hair and a long power sword at her waist. She had a pinched expression and did not betray a hint of awe at the sight of a Space Marine Chaplain looming over her. In fact she was doing her best to convey that she found his presence to be an irksome inconvenience. The woman glared up at him and uttered, "I am Canoness-Preceptor Phantea and you are barging into my war."

Wrethan was amused by her temerity, for a Space Marine it was like being growled at by a puppy, but he did not let that show as he replied, "I am Chaplain Wrethan of the Storm Heralds Chapter and I go where the Emperor wills."

"Pah," Phantea spat, "You'd better speak to the Cardinal, the rest of you are dismissed."

The Sisters obeyed and marched away, casting a few awed glances back at him. Phantea however turned and strode off leaving Wrethan to catch up. She led him towards an ornate temple, set so it looked over the slums of the city. Wrethan judged this to be the Ecclesiarchy's command centre and he was disheartened to see how badly positioned it was, this was a poor place to run an army from. Yet around its foundations he saw rings of x-shaped frames, he recognised them to be excruciation racks, each one filled with a wailing person as they were subjected to shock from pain-goads and burning iron brands, applied by confessors in heavy brown robes.

Wrethan asked curiously, "What is this display for?"  
Phantea replied briskly, "The Fraters come to us professing their devotion but sadly few live up to their pledges. Their mettle proves brittle in the heart of combat, often their courage breaks and they flee to save their own lives. Most who run die anyway, but those who survive are brought here to expunge their shame in blessed pain."

Wrethan approved of the idea and said, "Cowardice is a sin that requires severe chastisement, but would not flogging be more expedient?"  
"Flogging? Pah, too soft by half," Phantea scoffed as they walked among the racks, "The torment of the racks serves to reinforce their devotion, none have been brought back a second time."

Wrethan's estimation of this woman went up a notch and he glanced over to ask, "Tell me of the leaders of this Crusade, what are they like?"  
Phantea replied proudly, "Cardinal Pontius Pilate is a shining example of the Imperial faith, selfless, pure of heart and devout. You will find no soul more dedicated to the God-Emperor, he alone stands free from sin."

Wrethan was surprised to hear that, in his experience Cardinals were corrupt, venal and debauched to a man. That a soul could rise so high and not sink into decadence was unusual. Yet he sensed a caveat and asked, "And the other leaders?"  
Phantea sounded less sure as she said, "Confessor E'zard, enjoys his work, he enjoys it a lot. But Inquisitor Luco, nobody knows what he wants."

Wrethan didn't doubt that, Inquisitors were a wily and underhanded breed, always willing to betray anyone to achieve their nebulous goals. Wrethan had yet to meet an Inquisitor he would not happily use as a bullet shield, but the authority of their position made any public threat against them impossible. As he was thinking this they passed within the temple, garnering stupefied expressions of awe and disbelief from various priests as he passed them by.

Wrethan gave them no notice as he was led within, neither did he pay any mind to the gold ornamentation, the multitude of statues of Imperial Heroes or the various Holy relics on display. His own Chapter had magnificent relics that surpassed such paltry items, weapons of potent might and banners that had flown over a million battlefields. Compared to that, a lock of hair from a saint or a piece of twisted brass seemed poor fare.

Wrethan followed Phantea into a bare stone corridor and then into a cold, unadorned chamber, bereft of ornamentation or gilding. Wrethan was surprised by the humble locale; he had expected a banquet hall or a sumptuous audience chamber. Yet within were three men, whose identity could not be mistaken. The first was a thin-faced man with a scraggly beard, who wore robes of fiery red and had a dangerous glint to his eye. Wrethan had seen that look before, more than a few serial killers found their way into the ranks of the Astartes and this one had a similar air, he must be E'zard. The next wore silver power armour under black robes. His pale face was hidden in shadows but the golden 'I' at this throat left no doubt that this was Inquisitor Luco.

The last man was fat and swaddled in creamy robes. He had beady eyes and was sweating even in the cool air of the chamber. He gripped the arms of his chair with puffy fingers and looked up at Wrethan with curiosity, not fear. Behind him were two Sister-flagellators, carrying pain-goads and the air of those who used them often. This had to be Cardinal Pontius Pilate.

Wrethan ground to a halt as Phantea declared, "Your Excellency, I bring Wrethan of the Storm Heralds."  
Pilate nodded and said, "You may leave us now."

Wrethan stood stonily as she departed then said, "So, you are the ones running this shambles."  
E'zard started in his chair and snapped, "Watch your tone; this is a Cardinal you address! I should tie you to an excruciation rack for your insolence!"

Wrethan fixed him with the glare of his skull-helm, knowing the blood-stains remained on it and growled, "Lay one finger upon me and you will find yourself missing both arms."

E'zard gulped at that but Pilate raised his fat hands and said, "Peace, no offence is taken. We are honoured to be guesting one of the God-Emperor's Angels."  
Yet Luco seemed unconvinced as he hissed, "One who barges in uninvited, we ordered you to remain in orbit, while we considered your petition to join the war."

Wrethan bit back an urge to threaten him and replied icily, "The Astartes need no permission to fight for the Emperor. We go where He wills, when He wills it."

Pilate rubbed his chin and said, "We do not deny your right to fight, your mandate from the God-Emperor is clear. Yet we are troubled that you elected to join the battle in the mines, especially when our thrust towards the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor was repulsed with great loses."

Wrethan was unimpressed and replied curtly, "The mines were a key strategic asset while the Cathedral is a worthless objective."  
That drew gasps from all and E'zard cried, "You dare!"  
Luco snarled too, "You speak Heresy!"

Wrethan was incensed by their accusations and spat, "Do not speak such words to me, I have faced down Heretics and Traitors since before any of you were born. I have walked outside time and space and known the touch of Phospex, yet lived to tell the tale. My Chapter is here to win your war for you and none will stand in our way."

The pair went into a sullen silence at the rebuke but Pilate spluttered, "But the Cathedral is everything, we must retake it. Without it fear and doubt will wash over the Imperium, the tears of despair will drown worlds and the dark shadow of Chaos will take us… arrr… arrr… Argh!"

Pilates' rant had been cut off as the pain-goads were applied to his back and the electrical shocks racked his fat body. Pilates shuddered in the grip of pain for a moment, but then fell back into his chair and mopped his brow. After a minute he composed himself and said, "My thanks Sisters, I nearly succumbed. Now what was I saying… ah yes. Chaplain, you must understand that since the great rift came this sector has been wracked with fear and doubt. The common man looks to the sky and sees Chaos in the ascendant, faith in the God-Emperor wanes, it is intolerable. The shrines of this city have long been icons of purity and devotion, none more so than the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor. We must reclaim it at all costs, not for ourselves, not for the sake of a city or a planet, but for all the citizens of the Imperium. So long as that Cathedral remains in Heretic hands humanity is without hope, capturing it must be our first objective."

Wrethan accepted this argument, he knew the power of an icon in the minds of men, yet he stated, "Be that as it may, your conduct of this war is lacking. You have forgotten your first duty to the Emperor, that the only fitting tribute you can lay at His feet is victory."

E'zard leaned in and hissed, "How? By putting you in command?"  
Wrethan dismissed that notion by saying, "It is not my place to lead the common man but there are better ways to fight a war than by throwing lives into the teeth of the foe. You could claim this whole Hive city with the forces at your disposal and the Cathedral would fall into your hands anyway."

Pilate looked intrigued and he asked, "What do you suggest?"  
Wrethan affirmed, "You have the numbers and firepower to win any war, you merely need to direct them properly. My Company can be the tip of your spear, breaking the foe wide open for your advance. Together we can win this war in short order."

Pilate looked interested yet Luco grinned slyly and said, "It so happens I know a few things of the Astartes and I recognise the markings on your plate. Those are penitent brands; you are on a Penitent Crusade."

Wrethan didn't like his tone and said, "That is irrelevant."

Yet Pilate disagreed as he cried, "You are a sinner! How dare you stand in a holy temple? Get out, you bring evil among us!"

Wrethan started forward and snapped, "You must listen to me!"  
But Pilate covered his eyes and said, "I shall not look upon sin, I shall not hear it, nor speak of it. Sisters, the goads, the goads now! Arrr… Arrrgh!"

As the pain-goads were applied Wrethan saw he had lost this fight and realised with a heavy heart that the Cardinal would not listen to reason. Pilates' conviction, which had seemed pure and noble, was revealed to be just one more form of decadence. Wrethan understood then that Pilates was a masochist, the man was addicted to pain and suffering and he was in his own way as debauched as any other self-indulgent Cardinal. Wrethan knew it was pointless trying to reason with such a man, nothing he could say would sway Pilates but he swore that this was not over, he would find a way to win this war with or without the Ecclesiarchy.

Angrily Wrethan turned and strode out, leaving the Cardinal wallowing in his addiction to pain. Meanwhile E'zard and Luco relaxed, certain that their own positions had been secured and that the Space Marine's arrival would not upset their hard-won dominance over the War of Faith. Luco especially was pleased, his ultimate goal was finally within his reach, in fact these Space Marines might just provide him with the opportunity he had been waiting for.


	21. Chapter 21

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 21**

The summit of the Hive Spire bustled with activity, filled with rushing bodies and the grinding of heavy machinery. Everywhere the Disciples of Ruin directed their slaves to drag weapons and munitions carts into position, sending ever more troops into the complex of the spire. The Heretical army was made up of fallen tech-priests, half machine half-man, few among them could form expressions yet their apprehension was made plain by the frantic speed at which they forced their minions onward. Slaves were worked to death, dragging armaments to and fro, many of them falling to be crushed under the iron wheels of the carts they were pushing. Their drug-riddled brains were unable to raise a voice in protest, even as they stumbled and were crushed, for suddenly time was a precious resource and the Disciples cared not if all their slaves died in the mad rush.

The reason for their desperate speed was obvious, the Space Marines had come and the whole nature of the war had shifted. Word had spread through the Disciples' ranks with the speed only Binaric speech could achieve and they knew well the implications. Imperial Space Marines were legendary, even among the Mechanicus' Skitarri warriors, they were the Imperium's strongest warriors, forged with gene-craft beyond even Mars' comprehension. Of course the Titan Legions, the Legio Cybernetica and the masses of Skitarri were all proud and mighty institutions yet time and time again the Astartes had won through where no others could and the warrior orders of Mars had learned to give them begrudging respect. It also did not help that the Disciples had no such champions amongst them; all they had were slaves and Flesh-Golems. Hence the desperate rush to reinforce their defences in the Spire, before the Space Marines came for them.

Among that mad bustle it was hardly surprising that a shadow would go unseen, a thin slice of darkness passing over the ranks of slaves and Disciples without drawing notice. The shadow clung to the underside of ceilings and squeezed through the narrowest of gaps, making progress in areas a feline would have found impassable. The shadow was human in shape, thin and long-limbed, yet was able to contort and writhe in ways that should have broken bones and snapped sinews. With complete silence the shadow passed over a busy thoroughfare, drawing not a hint of alarm as it moved into maintenance duct that was lined with pipes, which passed through the structure of the Hive Spire, carrying unknown substances to forgotten places.

Among the tangle of cold metal there was enough room to stand upright and the shadow unfolded, certain that it was unobserved. The shadow was revealed to be a human woman, clad in a tight black bodyglove that hugged every curve of her body and covered her head, save for her eyes and mouth. Many such outfits in the galaxy were flattering, used by bored Imperial high-born nobility to play at being dangerous, or low-born gangers to advertise their deadly nature, but this suit was not intended for show. Anyone with any knowledge of combat would have seen it was designed for infiltration, not strutting about drawing admiring glances.

The fabric of it was made from a mesh-weave that spread impacts across the entire suit, dampening the force of any blows and the material could absorb energy blasts as easily as blunt force. It also incorporated a number of stealth systems, that could fool any human-made auspex or motion sensor, hence the bearer's swift progress. The entire suit was developed from purloined Eldar gear, its very existence was a crime against Imperial doctrine, but then the wearer and her employer laughed at such foolish notions.

The wearer was compact, with hardened-muscles and a cold, murderous gaze. Her movements were precise and exact, economical and efficient yet hinting at a speed and power that would surprise anyone who judged her soft. Her eyes were mechanical replacements, that cut through the pitch black surroundings like it was daylight and many more subtle augmetics were worked into her frame, letting her joints twist in ways that shouldn't be possible. Her skin was hidden by her suit but underneath she was covered in tattoos, markings of proscribed sects and secret orders, all declaring her devotion to death. She was Vyrila and she was Death Cult assassin.

Vyrila moved in complete silence as she worked her way down the maintenance duct, alert for any sign that her mission had been compromised. Her eyes scanned frequencies beyond normal human vision while her suit probed for lurking auspex waves and laser-trip wires. Any such devices were subtly overridden; their machine spirits subverted and repurposed to serve her. Such technology was not available to the common masses of the Imperium, officially it didn't exist, but then the Inquisition had access to many forbidden things.

As she walked Vyrila reviewed her mission, she was tasked to infiltrate the heart of the Disciples' den, then steal inside the innermost sanctum and seize their most prized asset. Inquisitor Luco had been waiting years for the opportunity to strike and the Space Marines had at last given it to him. Those blundering war-dogs would draw the Heretic's attention away, compelling them to move the bulk of their forces to the front and so weakening the core of the Disciples' defences. Vyrila was finally able to sneak inside unnoticed, so she could find the item and claim it for the Inquisitor. Confronting Ferro Corde was not essential to the completion of her mission, but it seemed unlikely he would be far from his prize and so she had a number of devices on her person to deal with the Magos, should he get in the way. But ultimately the Inquisitor did not care for the fate of the Heretic, nor the outcome of this war, all that mattered was securing the prize.

Vyrila came to the end of the ducts and silently dropped into a nexus of servitor passages, falling fifteen metres without so much as a whisper of effort as her feet touched down. She stood up and surveyed her surroundings, noting the various spots of concealment with an expert eye. Thus she was not surprised when a silver spear came out of the darkness behind her and thrust at her back.

Vyrila bent doubled, in a move that should have shattered her spine, and the spear tip passed harmlessly over her. She rolled forward and came up with a short handle in her grip, wound with silver wire and sporting a cross guard. A neural impulse through her augmetics triggered the hilt and from it grew a narrow silver sword, extending outwards until it became a thin rapier, that gleamed with a deadly energy field. Vyrila sank into a guard position, storing energy in her legs as she faced the shadow, waiting for the threat to emerge.

Yet there was no further attack, instead another woman stepped forward, dressed identically to Vyrila. The assassin did not relax her guard but she did grin in recognition. This was Urrila, her twin sister and another member of the same cult. Neither of them knew the sect's name, nor the world they had been born on, all they were permitted to know was their training, their cult's arcane belief system and the mission given to them. Millions of such sects infested the Imperium, sprouting among the worlds of men like weeds. The Inquisition rooted most out with extreme prejudice but every now and again they found a creed deemed useful enough to tolerate. The Ordo Hereticus had a tacit understanding with these death cults, they agreed to limit their ritualistic murders to those who would not be missed and in return they provided the Inquisition with cold-blooded assassins, who guaranteed complete deniability.

Neither of the twins spoke, neither of them could since their tongues had been removed long ago, yet Urrila signed in the secret cant of their sect, "You're late."

Vyrila signed back, "No, you're early."

Urrila grinned back and shouldered her spear, signing, "Come, target is near."

Vyrila lowered her guard and followed her twin deeper into the Hive, passing various sensors without tripping a single one. They were confident in their movements, knowing that nothing the Heretics boasted could see them. This had been proven on many occasions, on both sides of the front line. Inquisitor Luco hadn't been idle during the long years of the war, using his assassins frequently to eliminate troublesome leaders of the Disciples as well as inconvenient potentates among the Imperial hierarchy. Luco didn't care that his actions had prolonged the war; all that mattered to him was achieving his goal.

Vyrila didn't care either way; murder was the most sacred act of devotion to the God-Emperor, a transcendent act that elevated both the victim and murderer. It didn't matter if the target was loyal or Traitor, the deed itself was what counted. So she had been taught among the knife clades and blade dojos of her cult and so she believed wholeheartedly.

Suddenly Urrila froze before her and Vyrila saw the passage cut short by a thick wall. This was unexpected; the maps they had studied claimed the route continued for another hundred metres. Unfortunately such maps were notoriously unreliable, centuries of repair, adaption and reconstruction made all Hives unique creations, oft bearing scant resemblance to any blueprints. It was irksome but not unexpected; the twins had become accustomed to making their own routes in such circumstances.

Urrila knelt on the floor and pulled a micro-cutter from her suit, which she used to describe a large circle in the metal. An opening was cut into the passage floor, which she eased up an inch to peer underneath. Urrila signed, "Guards, patrolling. Ten slaves, one Disciple. Pass in thirty seconds." Vyrila grimaced, that was a complication, they would have preferred to leave no bodies in their wake. Unfortunately there was no other realistic route to their goal, they had to advance and that meant killing these ones. She gripped her sword firmly and tensed, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. When the moment was right Urrila flipped the circle out of the way and dropped through the hole, followed a heartbeat later by Vyrila.

She found herself emerging into a wide and low corridor, no more than ten feet high. It was bare and unadorned, but there was no time to speculate as to its purpose for the foe was right underneath them. Vyrila was already swinging as she dropped, her sword decapitating a man before she landed. The slaves barely reacted the twins dropped among them, blank-eyed from Kalma injections. Yet she knew in a mere moment they could switch to raged filled berserkers, so had to be dealt with quickly. Vyrila and Urrila dove among them, weapons flashing as they slaughtered the cowed slaves, blades ripped and tore as the men and women fell to the deadly onslaught, cut down before they could react.

The assassins made short work of the slaves but behind them was a black-robed Disciple, who screeched in alarm at their unexpected appearance. The Heretic made the mistake of pausing to vox an alert to his kin, but was brought up short when his transmission was jammed. Vyrila felt various devices on her suit buzzing as they overrode the transmission and too late the Heretic realised his danger and tried to lift a heavy axe, shaped like a cog-wheel. Yet he was too slow, for the twins had finished off the slaves and charged him.

Vyrila saw her twin go high, swinging her spear for the face, so she went low. As expected the Disciple lifted his weapon to defend his face, human instinct still governing his motions. The spear was blocked but her sword was free to strike and she swept it over his flank as she dashed by. There was a clang as the blade struck metal under the robe but the mere contact was enough. Laced into the hilt was an electro-static generator and as soon as it made contact it discharged, flooding the Heretic with disruptive energies. The Disciple shuddered as his internal systems were overloaded, shorting out as arcs of power dug deep. He jerked upright and lost control of his limbs, leaving himself open to a killing thrust from Urrila's spear.

The Heretic collapsed to the floor in a clatter of plate and Vyrila gritted her teeth at the noise. She hurriedly checked the corridor, but was relieved to see no further alarm had been raised. She breathed out in relief and lowered her sword as Urrila knelt beside the body. Hastily she joined her twin and together they dabbed their fingertips in the oily blood, then touched the fluid to their closed eyelids. This was their cult's means of sharing the sacrament of death, communing with the beyond and seeing what lay beyond the veil. It was a ritual as old as their sect and they savoured the transcendent moment, sharing the bliss of death.

Then the moment was over and they stood up, turning away to continue their progress. Ferro Corde's innermost sanctum was near and their objective was waiting for them to claim it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 22**

"Your argument is flawed," the voice intoned, filling the drafty sanctum with its mechanical burr. The vaulted chamber had once been some noble's mansion, set near to but not quite at the summit. It was buried deep with the spire's superstructure yet one would not know that, for the interior had been cunningly designed with wide spaces and high roofs that created the impression of space. Now a murky gloom dominated the area, married to a faint smell of damp and rust. This was Ferro Corde's inner sanctum and it was here the Heretic Magos chose to receive Christof and his kin.

Again his artificial voice hissed, "Your assertions are based upon supposition." Christof heard the words but did not let himself be riled, he knew Ferro Corde would not be swayed by an emotional outburst. He looked up at the leader of the Disciples of Ruin, seeing his bloated arachnid-like body skittering about among the debris littering his sanctum, but avoiding knocking his precious artefacts off their plinths with surprising skill. During his sojourn across the stars Ferro Corde had acquired a number of tainted artefacts, any one of which would have earned the owner an instant death sentence in the Imperium, but Christof cared not either way, there was only one thing he desired here.

The renegade dragged his eyes back to the Magos' metal body, sticking out of the bulk of the arachnid form and stated coldly, "I do not think you are treating this situation with the due concern."  
Ferro Corde rose up high, brandishing his clawed-tip staff in one hand as he cried, "I have run millions of calculations, the danger has been quantified and adjusted for. The Numbers of Ruin shall advance."

Beside him Rauf snorted, "You cannot 'adjust' for Space Marines, they will blow through your pathetic defences without even noticing they are there."  
Ferro Corde snapped back, "I have deployed vast numbers of weapons and assets to reinforce the front line, when the Imperial Astartes come they will be repulsed. The probability of them breaching the outer perimeter is below twelve percent."

Christof could not help but sigh, "You have no comprehension what you are dealing with, this is war, not a maths lessons. Astartes were made to defy the odds, winning impossible battles is what we were gene-forged to do."  
Ferro Corde didn't seem impressed as he said, "If they come I will bleed them dry, their casualties will be unsustainable."

Yet Gwayne countered, "They won't care, they know you don't have the mean to stop them. Your Flesh-golems are armed to fight mortals, not Space Marines, they won't stand a chance."

Ferro Corde gripped his staff fiercely and proclaimed, "I am upgrading my Flesh-Golems with energy-blades and melta weaponry. I have my Spyders and Psyrens, the Buzz-wings, Man-mowers and Hell-Geists while my Sorrow-shriekers near completion. Ceramite armour will be no match for that power, I will rend these Astartes down to swarf."  
But Rauf scoffed, "You think scrapping with the bolter bitches has prepared your army for what's coming, but you have no concept of what Astartes can do."

Christof sighed loudly in exasperation and explained, "You are assuming they will come at you all guns blazing, but they won't. These Space Marines are not line grunts, their Codex turned them into elite rapid-strike forces. I read a copy once and it is boring and pedantic strategy, but annoyingly effective. They won't throw themselves onto your guns, they will hit you where it hurts, tear your supports system apart, reduce your infrastructure to rubble and cripple you. Only when you have nothing left will they come for you, you need to give me free rein to counter them."

Ferro Corde's head lowered and his voice became a mocking tone as he sneered, "You do not fool me, you plot to draw my forces away and expose your payment."  
"I don't…" Christof demurred but too late for Ferro Corde turned his bulk away and skittered over the floor to a locked auto-reliquary.

Christof watched resignedly as the Magos moved, making the shadows dance in strange ways. Christof's eyes glanced upwards into the gloom but then Ferro Corde reached the casket and flung the doors wide as he proclaimed, "Behold, the Porta Infernale!"

Within the auto-reliquary was a large brass wheel, as broad as a man's chest. It was formed into concentric circles, that were engraved with eldritch markings and complicated swirls. The circles could slide completely around each other, creating lurid designs and spelling out impossible words as the icons moved in relation to each other. Set dead centre of the device was a crystal orb, within which an eye floated in a pool of blood, eternally fluid and never setting. The eye was dark and speckled with stars, torn from the head of a mutant Navigator, the third eye by which one could steer a path through the Warp.

Ferro Corde skittered backwards and called, "This is what you want."  
Christof glanced upwards again, then stepped forward to examine the device, saying, "That was the price we agreed."

The Magos chuckled, "Such a prize, its worth is incalculable. This device is nothing less than a portable warp-portal, a mobile gateway leading through time and space. With the Porta Infernale one does not need shuttles and starships, nor Navigators or the Astronomican. Merely set the coordinates right, sacrifice an unwilling soul and you can step from world to world, as easily as passing through rooms in a house. With this in your hands, your hunters could never catch up to you."

Christof dragged his eyes away from it and said, "You still don't understand, you need me to win this war."  
But the Magos sneered, "I have run the calculations, we approach a critical mass of force. The Imperials will fall, that is certain. I don't need you, not anymore."

Christof kept his voice level as he stated, "You're sure?"  
Ferro Corde snapped, "I have accounted for every variable and every probability, nothing can escape the inevitably of Ruin."

Christof took three paces backwards then stated levelly, "Then I wish you good luck with them."  
Ferro Corde sounded confused as he said, "With what?"  
"With those two assassins hanging from your roof," Christof answered.

Ferro Corde reared up in shock but before he could understand what was occurring two lithe figures in black dropped from the roof. They fell upon the Magos's broad back silently and without battle cries, striking at his metal bulk with a spear and a sword. Such feeble armaments should have made no impact but as they struck there was a sizzle of electro-static energies and the Magos convulsed as his mechanical systems overloaded. He roared wildly as his legs danced under him, bucking his frame like a wild colt. His humanoid body twisted and swung wildly with his clawed staff but the assassins dodged the blows and struck again and again, tearing at the armour over his thorax.

Gwayne moved to intervene but was brought up short by Christof's raised arm as he uttered, "He said he doesn't need our help.  
"But we need to intervene!" Gwayne protested.  
Yet Christof countered, "Our agreement said nothing about fighting assassins."

The trio stepped back as Ferro Corde charged past, ineffectually trying to throw the assassins off his back. Christof saw their weapons hitting him over and over, sending him into an uncontrolled skitter, but all the warrior did was cross his arms and watch events playing out. The Magos roared in outrage as the women started to prise plates off his armoured bulk, exposing the delicate systems beneath. He tried to strike them off, but they clung to his back and he could not reach them.

Rauf sounded amused as he tilted his head and remarked, "I wonder how long it will take them to find his heart, assuming he has one."  
Christof kept his arms crossed as sparks flew from the Heretic's shorting systems and he answered casually, "I give it less than three minutes."  
A thrust from a spear tore cables apart, rendering one leg dead and Rauf scoffed, "Make that two minutes."

Ferro Corde was being taken apart piece by piece and he roared in desperation, "Assist me!"  
Yet Christof retorted, "But you said you don't need us."

Gwayne seemed to have cottoned on and called out, "Watch out for the one with the… ow, that looked nasty."

Ferro Corde was screaming now as his internal mechanisms were burnt out, sending arcing energies through his systems. The Heretic Magos was losing control of his body and implored, "Help me; I'll do anything you ask!"  
Christof sniffed dismissively, "You will follow my instructions, no more second-guessing and subverting my commands?"

"Yes!" Ferro Corde screamed as the assassins stabbed him again, "I'll do it, I'll do whatever you say!"  
"Very well," Christof sighed, "You two stay here, I'll deal with this."

Christof drew the Sword of Solitude as he ran into the fray, seeing the pair of black-clad woman react instantly. They flipped off the crippled Magos, turning to face the greater threat barrelling upon them. They came at him with spear and sword, silently launching a flurry of blows. Christof met them with the edge of his blade, knocking aside their thrusts and instantly noted their remarkable speed and strength. Their blows had post-human vigour driving them and their joints bent in impossible ways, hinting at sophisticated augmetics in their bodies. They were faster and more deadly than any mortal, post-human in their prowess, yet for all their enhancements they were not Transhuman.

Christof met every blow with consummate speed and skill, matching them perfectly. The blades flashed between them, yet not one touched his armour and the women could not cut him down. In return the tip of the Sword of Solitude scored across the guts of the sword-wielder but to his surprise did not disembowel her. Instead the bodyglove hardened and absorbed the energy, in a way he recognised Eldar aspect armour did. The other woman though spied an opening in his defence and thrust her spear at his flank. It was a good blow, fast and precise, yet she failed to grasp that he was a Space Marine and would never leave such an obvious opening. Before the blow could land Christof's hand shot out, catching the spear behind its head. The assassin was brought to an abrupt halt as her weapon was pinned and before she could understand what had happened Christof's other hand swept about, bringing the Sword of Solitude around to tear off her head.

The first assassin fell, spurting blood from the stump of her neck and Christof heard a gasp of shock from the other. Instinctively he twisted aside, yet felt a sword score across his side, drawing blood as the energised blade tore through his armour. Frantically he backpedalled, blocking and parrying with his great broadsword, such moves shouldn't have been possible with a heavy weight like that but he had the strength of an Astartes and his mastery of the sword was dazzling. The other woman pursued him, with murder in her eyes and she attacked in a flurry of lightning strikes. Her attacks were swift and powerful, driven by augmetic strength and inhuman angles as her joints flexed. No man could have survived such an onslaught and yet somehow Christof caught and deflected every single blow before it could land. The woman's' eyes widened in shock as she beheld his mastery of the blade and in that instant he counter-attacked, thrusting for her heart.

Desperately the woman was forced to leap back, surprise evident in her eyes as she crouched low in preparation for another round. Christof lifted his sword a fraction, ready for her next move but the assassin's intent was not to meet him blade to blade. Her hand blurred as she snatched a device from her belt and threw it at him, a dark grey orb that seemed to throb in the air: a plasma grenade. Christof watched it arcing towards him and he knew if it made contact it would end him. Yet his hand was already moving, rising to meet it in mid-air. With transhuman speed Christof snatched the grenade out of the air then his wrist snapped as he threw it back.

The woman's jaw fell and she tried to throw herself out of the way, but she was only post-human. There was a spark of light, followed by a blazing orb of pure destruction as the plasma spilled out, encompassed in a perfect magnetic sphere that obliterated all contained within. The woman's bottom half was caught in the blast zone and ceased to exist, atomised to nothing, then the sphere snapped out of existence. The shorn half of the woman fell to the ground, screaming in agony as her guts spilled out, yet Christof was there in a heartbeat, his sword falling to end her life in one great blow.

The last assassin fell limp at his feet and Christof exhaled slowly, feeling his wound closing as his Transhuman body rebuilt itself. Behind him Ferro Corde lurched upright and stood on his eight wobbly legs. Christof idly kicked the body over but as he assumed there were no identifying marks upun the corpse, nothing that could tell him who sent this assassin. Yet he didn't have to wonder, the Imperials had made their move.

Ferro Corde skittered closer and snapped angrily, "Someone will pay for this."  
"Indeed," Christof said, "But first you will honour our agreement."

Ferro Corde hissed, "Your lethality index exceeded my projections by a significant margin. If all Astartes are like you then my calculations are indeed wrong. New computations indicate that my greatest probability for success is to let you take full command of my forces."

"Finally," Christof stated, "First you must redouble your efforts to upgrade the Flesh-Golem's weaponry and strengthen your guards around the key facilities. These assassins failed, but the Space Marines will come next and we need to be ready for them."


	23. Chapter 23

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 23**

The dormitory was quiet, a place of rest and restoration for the Sisters. Justini was glad to be back after all they had endured, it seemed like a safe haven, a place where no danger could reach them. It was an illusion, she knew that to be true, yet she clung to the notion, she needed to believe it was so.

The battle had been harrowing and the encounter with the Psyren had torn at their sanity. The scars of that encounter still lingered, evident in distant stares and pained expressions. Justini felt it even now, a black cloud of despair edging at her thoughts and trying to suffocate her. Yet every time it loomed the memory of seeing the Space Marines arose to counter it, the brilliant ray of hope driving back the darkness. The Astartes were here, sent by the God-Emperor to protect them and she could feel His grace upon this world. She clung to that thought like a touchstone, using it to keep the despair at bay.

She was dragged from her thoughts by the voice of Resita proclaiming, "I can scarcely credit it, to see the Angels of Death with our own eyes. We are blessed indeed!" Justini focused on the room, seeing Resita, Desity, Praxi and Selosha all sitting on their own beds. They had been here since returning from the front, having been thoroughly debriefed and shorn of their battered plate. Karna was elsewhere, making formal reports and they had been left with a rare moment of idleness.

Desity spoke up, "I wouldn't give them too much praise, they are not divine beings."

Praxi snorted, "Are you mad? Did you not see them in action?!"

Desity retorted, "They may be deadly but then they were made to be so, like a bolter."

Resita sounded offended as she spat, "Are they not the work of His hand?"

Desity countered, "Be careful not to mistake the tool for the wielder, they are instruments of His will, remember that. Only the God-Emperor is worthy of praise, false idols can lead you astray."

Selosha interjected, "They are mighty but not perfect. Forget not the scriptures: one-third the Astartes and the Hosts of the Imperium fell to Chaos and followed the Arch-Heretic Horus into damnation. Until the God-Emperor caught them by the heel and threw them into the Hell of the Warp, where they festered in their hatred, becoming loathsome in His sight."

Justini shuddered as the thought of the great Heresy, a time of woe and damnation. Most of the Imperium knew nothing of that catastrophe and the few details permitted were presented as myths and cautionary fables, yelled from pulpits across the galaxy to cow the common folk. Yet the Sisters knew it was no allegorical parable, they were expected to face the hosts of Chaos and so knew the Traitor Legions were no myth.

Justini's hand strayed to the ring, on its string around her neck as she said, "Be grateful we don't face them, I have no wish to fight Traitor Marines."

Resita didn't share her feelings and uttered, "With the true Angels here we can defeat any foe, our righteous power will sweep aside the corruption of the Heretics!"

Yet Justini muttered, "Don't be so sure, we have all sinned one way or another."

Selosha gave her a stern look and snapped, "We should be grateful for His protection and remember the importance of humility and knowing our place."

Justini caught the message; Selosha was reminding her to keep her mouth shut. Since they had come back everything had been a mad rush but she hadn't forgotten her Sister's sins and her own role in covering them up. Selosha had been to all appearance demur and proper, the image of a pure Sister, but both of them knew the sin hanging over them, the lies and secrets they were keeping. The deception wore at Justini's heart, she didn't like keeping the truth from her superiors, but she had made a promise and couldn't back out of it now. If the truth got out now they would both be sent to the Sisters Repentia, likely to die in battle. Justini felt wretched for her part in the shameful falsehood, but it was too late to change her mind, she was trapped in her lie and could not escape.

Suddenly there was a scuffle at the door and Justini's head turned to see Karna standing there, looking stern. The squad leapt to their feet as Karna barked, "The Canoness wants to see us, right now!" Everybody hastily followed the Sister-superior out of the dormitory, heading deeper into the Chantry-barracks. They marched swiftly down the cold passageways, the flagstones sucking heat from their bare feet as they did so. Justini wondered why the Canoness wanted to see them so urgently, but she could not pause to ask for Karna was marching swiftly onwards. They passed various servants on the way but she had no time to look at their faces. Yet she felt their gazes upon her, the heat of their accusing stares burning her face. Her mind raced as she wondered why they were being summoned and what the Canoness knew. Perhaps Phantea already knew about Selosha and Justini's part in covering it up.

Hurriedly they made their way to the Canoness' private dormitory, more a bare cell really and filed in. They stood in a straight line before a heavy desk, behind which Phantea was sitting, bereft of her armour and dressed only in a plain shrift. The Canoness-Preceptor looked smaller without her plate yet her gaze had lost none of its sternness nor her diamond-hard will. Justini felt a bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck and a blush forming but before she could panic Phantea uttered, "So you are the ones."

Karna looked directly ahead and replied for them, "Reporting as ordered."

"Be at ease," Phantea said, "This is not a formal meeting but I am speaking to all those who survived the fight at the Deep Core mines. You are the first Sororitas to encounter a Psyren and survive, without going stark raving mad, I need to know how you did it."

Karna stated bemusedly, "We have made a full report."

"Pah," Phantea spat, "Dry figures and dusty reports, I want to know what it felt like."

Everybody glanced at each other and Praxi was the first to speak, "It was… like drowning in despair."

"And fear," Justini added, "All our worst nightmares, all at once."

"I see," Phantea mused, "And how did you survive?"

"The Space Marines," Resita declared, "They did more than just destroy the Psyren, they gave us hope. To see them in action was to behold the God-Emperor's protection made manifest, no despair is a match for His grace."

Phantea made a note on a piece of parchment with a long quill and asked, "In your judgement, is it something we can replicate?"

"No," Desity stated, "I don't see how we could repeat such a feat."

"That is a shame," Phantea sighed, "I was hoping we may have found a defence against the Psyren threat."

Justini dared to say, "Surely now the Astartes have come the threat will end, together we can sweep the Heretics from Tethys and then the other Hive Cities."

Phantea grimaced as she said, "Unfortunately, there have been complications, Cardinal Pilate does not want us to cooperate with the Adeptus Astartes."

Justini was shocked to hear that and gasped, "But surely…"

Phantea cut her off snapping, "We do not question his Excellency's orders. He is unwilling to trust these newcomers and instructs us to not to share intelligence or take orders from the Space Marines."

Resita sounded confused as she said, "We are turning His angels away?"

Phantea replied, "Not exactly, we have no authority to oppose the Astartes from prosecuting a war, their jurisdiction comes from the Golden Throne of Terra itself. The God-Emperor gave them free rein to fight where and when they will, but we are ordered not to aid them, nor call for their aid under any circumstances."

Justini found it hard to believe what she was hearing but there was no possibility of questioning her orders. Phantea leaned back and said, "Return to your prayers, new combat assignments will be given to you soon."

One by one the squad turned away and filed out, but as Justini was about to follow Phantea said, "Sister Justini, a moment."

She paused at the door and saw the others glance back but she had no choice other than to turn back and face the Canoness. Phantea's gaze bored into her, making her stomach clench in dread as she wondered what was to come. She didn't know what was about to be said but she was certain it was bad, she could conceive of no other reason for her superior wanting to speak to her alone. She steeled her soul for the ordeal to come and said, "Is there something I can help you with Canoness?"

Phantea's gaze did not waver but she stated, "Justini… I have received disturbing reports about you. Word comes to my ears that you hesitated in combat, that you were not fighting to your best."

"The Psyren shook me…" Justini began to say, wondering what had been said of her.

Yet Phantea shook her head and uttered, "No it was before that, you were distracted and unfocused, you did not fight with your full fervour."

Justini lowered her eyes to avoid the accusation and murmured, "I apologise for my weakness, I will do better."

Phantea was not mollified and said, "Are you sickening or injured?"

Justini replied, "No canoness, I am hale, I can fight."

Phantea narrowed her eyes and said, "Something is off with your squad, I can tell. Your spirits are lacklustre and your zeal is diminished, I know you sense it too."

Justini knew exactly why that was so, Selosha's lies and breaking of her vows had cast a stain upon the heart of their squad. Her actions had corrupted the purity of their souls and cast division among them. Of course it was affecting their combat performance, how could it not, they were fractured and keeping secrets from each other. Unfortunately Justini couldn't shift all the blame onto her Sister; she too had lied and deceived, yet a promise had been made and she had to keep it. Selosha was her Sister and she couldn't let her down. Justini wished she could confess it all, but she knew it was too late. She would lose everything she had if she told the truth now, the only way was to hold to her course and wait for the storm to pass.

All this had passed through her mind in a heartbeat and she realised the Canoness was waiting for an answer. Evasively she uttered, "I am not sure what you mean."

Phantea looked annoyed as she growled, "Don't play games with me, I know something is wrong with you, with your whole squad."

Justini's conscience yelled at her to confess the truth and take her punishment but she couldn't. She was in too deep already, there was no other option for her but to cover for Selosha. Desperate for something to say she stammered, "Its… it's this war, the way it goes on and on. Our spirits grow weary of the endless fighting."

Phantea's growled dangerously, "You grow disillusioned with our cause? Your squad is losing faith that we will win?"

Justini swallowed nervously, her response was almost as bad as the truth, but she hastily deflected, "No, we doubt not that the Imperium shall triumph eventually, yet… we wonder if we will live to see the final victory. We do not think of our own welfare, our only thought is to serve the God-Emperor, but the idea that we will fall without bringing Him victory is…"

Yet she was brought up short by Phantea's raised hand, the Canoness looked thoughtful as she mused, "Your squad has been here for many years, longer than most, it is inevitable that combat-fatigue should take its toll. All units need time to rest and retrain to be at peak efficiency; even the Astartes recognise that truth. Normally the Order has strict limitations on the time any one unit spends at the front, but circumstances have caused us to exceed those rules. I wish I could rotate your unit out but that is not possible at the present time. Yet I want you to know that the final victory is close and when we do win this I shall see to it your squad is reassigned to a more ceremonial role. Standing guards over Cardinals for a few years should sort you out."

Justini was relieved that the conversation had turned from more dubious topics and bowed saying, "Thank you Canoness, we will be glad to serve."

Phantea drew in a slow breath and then said, "You will return to your dormitory and pray for the fortitude to endure until the end of this war."

Justini bowed again and turned to go, but before she left Phantea called, "You are certain that there is nothing else you wish to tell me?"

Justini felt a guilty sensation rush through her but forced it aside as she replied, "No Canoness, there is nothing else to say."


	24. Chapter 24

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 24**

Wrethan strode through the outskirts of Tethys Hive with an angry glower under his helm, marching furiously away from the Cardinal's temple. Behind him loomed the bulk of the city spire, shimmering in the wan light that refracted through the void shield. Distant booms and rolling thunder told him that the fighting continued but it was sporadic and unfocused, merely the endless grind of this war, not the vicious storm of a proper offensive. Without even looking backwards Wrethan could tell that the fighting was stalemated, his genhanced hearing combined with centuries of experience to paint a mental picture of the balance of power.

Before him the ranks of the fraters drew back in awe, many of them falling to their knees in adoration. They stared at his height and bulk, the broad sweep of his pauldrons and the fierceness of his skull-helm as if he was a divine being. Many wept to see him passing, they began to sing and pray aloud, many holding up their palms as if seeking a blessing from him. To them the Space Marines were figures of legend and myth, seen only in statues and frescos in the billions of temples that littered the galaxy. These simple-minded devotees had come to this world seeking divinity and thought him an avatar of the God-Emperor, a blessed emissary of Him on Terra, perfect and flawless in every way. Sadly Wrethan knew that was as far from the truth as anything could be.

Wrethan understood that under the gene-forging and Hypno-indoctrination Space Marines remained human, subject to the same flaws and imperfections. They were conditioned and honed for a lifetime of war but they could still hold grudges and make mistakes, in many ways worse than those that plagued mortal men. A weakness that the Chaplaincy order was supposed to guard against, yet sadly for the Storm Heralds it had been the Chaplaincy that was the root of their Heresy.

Wrethan's order had lost sight of their role as servants; they had come to see themselves as superior in spirit to humanity and more deserving of power. High Chaplain Samect had craved dominion over the common man, teaching the his followers to aggrandize themselves and instilling the desire to rule. They had blindly shouted praises to the Emperor as a divine being, all the while seeking to usurp His rule and steal His sovereignty. Wrethan had played his part in that sedition, he could blame no other for his crime, he had joined willingly and cut down far more noble Brothers, who had remained true when he had not. Their blood was still on his hands, some days he could even see it on his armour.

In the quiet hours Wrethan wondered if the Storm Heralds could ever truly recover from this stain upon their honour or if it would mark them for all time. Yet he would always remind himself that not all had disgraced themselves. A stalwart band of brave heroes had opposed the insurrection and won through. His old comrades of Third Company had been among them and he could not have been more proud of them. Their courage and integrity had put him to shame, the brilliant and unorthodox strategy of Captain Toran leading them to righteous victory. Wrethan wished more than anything that he had made a different choice, that he had stood with his comrades when they needed him. The thought that he had cast aside their Brotherhood was a wound more grievous to him than the searing kiss of Phospex. Wrethan wondered sometimes where the Third Company was and what wars they were fighting, were they leading the triumphant resurgence of the Storm Heralds or making some desperate last stand against impossible odds?

Wrethan shook his head angrily; he was becoming lost in introspection, not a good thing. He needed to focus on the road ahead, not wallow in self-pity. He turned his eyes back to the crowds of people parting before him, taking in their ragged attire and thin limbs. Once he would have held their frail spirits and thin strength in contempt, but now he saw only the depths of their privation. These people needed to be protected and shepherded, to be shown the way to become strong. The Emperor had decreed that humanity was His flock and Wrethan's duty was to guide them with strength, commitment and where necessary stern correction. He had forgotten that once, but never again.

He turned his thoughts to the Sisters of Battle and mused upon their nature. Their devotion and zeal were admirable; that they were willing to fight the minions of Chaos was a testament to the potential of humanity. Yet they failed to marry that ardour with tactical wisdom, they tied their hands together with flawed battle plans and blinded themselves with an unwillingness to form a proper strategy. As the Codex taught: a failure to plan was a plan to fail.

Wrethan's musing was brought to a halt as he spied his destination, a small encampment set up within the bounds of the city wall. It was a meagre facility, little more than an armed depot and repair facility made of prefab buildings brought down from orbit. It was situated in a former market square, sectioned off by razorwire and servitor crewed heavy bolter turrets. It surprised many that the Astartes required such logistics, but even they needed a place to store ammo, replace weapons and collect intelligence.

A small crowd lurked outside the perimeter of the base and Wrethan strode past them without pause. Within he found a small collection of Chapter serfs tending to munition pallets and setting up plasma generators. It was a small base even by their standards but then they had not needed the full array of facilities, as a rule urban warfare discouraged the use of heavily armoured vehicles. There was one exception though, in the centre of the base squatted a Rhino, a Damocles command variant with a large dish set over its roof.

Wrethan wasted not a moment to stride up its ramp and step within, where he found Captains Erathor and Tygra, both with helms off, pouring over a Hololithic projection of Tethys. The map was constantly refreshing, adding ever more details as a Servitor in the corner processed incoming data and added it to the strategic display.

Wrethan heard Tygra stating, "I'm telling you it's a blood bath!"  
Erathor stared into the projection and said, "It's our best chance."

Tygra shook his head and said, "We'd lose half our squads in a full-frontal assault."  
"When has that ever stopped us?" Erathor countered.

Wrethan halted before them and said, "Problem Captain?"  
Erathor looked up and said, "Wrethan, how did your meeting with the Cardinal go?"  
Wrethan sighed, "As well as you would expect."

Tygra snorted at that and announced, "I told you the Ecclesiarchy were a bunch of cretins. Let me guess: they ordered us off-world."  
Wrethan shook his head and said, "No, but the Cardinal refuses to ally with us. He is little more than a figurehead; the true rule lies with his underlings and the Inquisition."

Tygra sneered, "You were a fool to think they would be swayed by our arrival. This war is beneath us, we should leave."  
"Abandon the fight when it has barely begun?!" Wrethan snarled, "Even you are not so dishonourable."

Tygra faced him squarely and growled, "Neither am I a blinkered idiot, this is a meatgrinder. If we stay we will be whittled down to nothing, nobody will be left to find your supposed redemption."  
Wretha's ire rose and he growled, "Do not mock our quest, we will find atonement, the Emperor would not have led us here were it otherwise. You shall come to understand that Tygra, even if I have to beat it into you."

"Cease your quarrelling!" Erathor barked testily, "The plan can still work; we can punch through the front lines and storm the summit of the spire."  
Tygra shook his head and said, "We can seize the peak but we can't defend it against the inevitable counterattack, there are too many objectives to hold and we are too few. We counted upon the Frater's sheer numbers to back us up, without that we will be ground down to nothing."  
Yet Erathor disagreed, "It will be a glorious victory."

Wrethan felt his spirits sink, Erathor was thinking of glory again. Normally a good sign but he was forgetting they were on a Penitent Crusade, glory should not be their primary goal. Wrethan wanted to rebuke him sternly but not in front of Tygra, it would undermine the Captain's authority. Instead the Chaplain stepped in to say, "Let us not forget the wisdom of the Codex, the Primarch taught that sound theoreticals are the bedrock of any Practical. What intelligence have we gathered?"

Erathor gestured at the projection and said, "I've sent in squads to recon the disposition of the enemy. We have also broken the Ecclesiarchy's vox-encryption cyphers, it was pathetically easy, we can see everything they can. As you can see these Disciples of Ruin are digging in, setting up entrenched positions in an effort to deny our advance. They think they can hold us back but we can break them with ease, drive into the heart of their defences and smash the Golem-Foundry in one swift thrust. This Ferro Corde shall die by my blades."

Wrethan eyed the projection and did not like what he saw and he declared, "I agree with Tygra."  
"You what?!" both Captains exclaimed in shock as their jaws dropped.

Wrethan nodded, amused by their dumbstruck expressions and he said, "A swift resolution to this war is tempting, a glorious and blood-soaked charge into the teeth of the enemy's fire calls to the heart of every Astartes, but we must not forget our vow to protect the helpless. These Fraters need us to do more than lop off the head of the beast, they need us to show them the way to victory so they can win through in the other Hive cities."

Tygra sneered, "I thought you said they wouldn't work with us."  
Wrethan corrected him, "I said the Cardinal was stubborn, words failed to convince him, so we shall resort to deeds."

"Sounds like a pointless waste of time and blood to me," Tygra snorted, "I say if these Fraters are so foolish as to fight without us then we leave them to their folly."  
Wrethan fixed him with an irate glare as he declared, "They can be a great people, if well led; they only need someone to show them how."

Yet before the argument could resume Erathor cocked an eyebrow and said, "What are you suggesting?"  
Wrethan had an idea but it was not his place to dictate strategy, the Captain needed to see this for himself. So he nodded at the Hololith and said, "The Imperium enjoyed orbital supremacy but the void shield holds back all assaults, otherwise this war would have been over years ago. Still the Ecclesiarchy ships in material and manpower outside the city limits."

"So?" Tygra snorted dismissively.  
Wrethan ignored that and said, "While I visited the Cardinal I noted that they also ship in supplies, every drop of water on this polluted world has to be brought from off-world to support the faithful. Which raises an interesting question…"  
Erathor caught on and wondered, "Where are the Heretics getting their own supplies?"

All eyes turned to the Hololith and scoured it thoroughly, then Tygra pointed to a cluster of buildings on the far side of the Spire and proclaimed, "Here, near the coastal docks. These bulk chemical tanks have been retrofitted, I'd wager a month's ration of Synthi-gruel it's a desalination plant, filtering and purifying water for the Heretic army."  
Erathor mused, "Even Heretics need to drink, take out that facility and they will start to die of thirst. The Codex tells us that destroying that target will force the enemy to act precipitously."

Tygra spat, "The Ecclesiarchy has been here for years and never noticed this, they are blind as well as stupid."  
Yet Erathor mused, "Destroy that target and the Heretics days will be numbered."  
Wrethan added, "More than that it will show the Ecclesiarchy that a proper stratagem is worth a hundred meat-grinders. We will turn the tide of this war in a day."

Tygra rubbed his chin with a metal hand and said, "Airborne assaults are out of the question, we'd be trapped under the void shield and blown to pieces. We will have to infiltrate through the front lines and attack on foot."  
"Challenging, but doable," Erathor proclaimed, "It is decided, this is our first target."

Tygra scowled at that but said, "As you will, I can only trust this is worth it."  
Wrethan drew in a breath and said, "Rest assured that it is. This is a great step towards our redemption; you will see that before the end Tygra."


	25. Chapter 25

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 25**

The defence was sterner than they had expected, a complex web of heavy weapon emplacements and Flesh-Golems that turned the desalination plant into a deathtrap. Torrents of autocannon fire and lascannon blasts swept between the bulbous storage tanks and rained down from gantries high above. On the ground hideous fusions of flesh and metal rampaged freely, bestial snarls filling the air as they sought to overwhelm any opposition and crush the life from their foes. The defence was savage and brutal but the Space Marines were equal to the challenge.

Wrethan was in the midst of the melee, meeting a bounding Hell-Geist head on. It came at him with its maw wide open, fangs reaching for him as if eager to shovel his head down its gullet. The creature was propelled by pneumatic pistons in its legs and its weight was considerable, but Wrethan cared not. As the Flesh-Golem pounced his arm came up and caught it by the throat, his armour's servo motors growled in protest and the slightest grunt escaped his lips but he was unbowed. He stood there, holding the immense weight off the ground by one hand, as the creature kicked at him and gnashed its teeth inches from his face. In return he drove the head of Redeeming-Flame into its guts and the Crozius flared redly as the concussion field blew it apart in a shower of gore.

Wrethan dropped the torn scraps of meat while all around him the Storm Heralds engaged the foe, meeting savagery with righteous ire. Bolters barked and chainswords roared as they met the unnatural freaks and laid them low. Reaching the desalination plant had been no trivial feat, sneaking a force as mighty as this past the front line unnoticed would have been impossible for most, but Space Marines were called the Emperor's Finest for a reason. So they had reached their goal without comment and launched their assault, only to be met by the Heretics in droves.

Wrethan watched as a squad of Tactical Marines destroyed a man-mower with concentrated bolter fire while elsewhere a Spyder blasted arcs of black lightning into the fray, scorching ceramite. The bulky creature roared in glee as it fired over and over, yet it was caught unawares as a squad of assault marines fell upon it, chainswords cutting deeply with every slash. Further along a Heretic party aimed a multi-laser down into the fray, firing indiscriminately into the melee. A Sergeant was caught in the spray of searing las-blasts, gouging many craters into his Ceramite plate. He did not wait for his plate to be worn down to nothing, instead diving under a Flesh-Golem for cover. The turret gunners tried to track him but failed to realise they were being led astray, for another Storm Herald lifted a shining plasma gun high and shot forth an incandescent ball of energy. The blast struck the position squarely and ignited into a ball of fiery death, consuming the Heretics and reducing them to ash.

The Space Marines were wrecking carnage but they weren't having everything their own way. Many of the Flesh-Golems now bore deadlier weaponry than they had before. Fusion cutters, electro-lashes and melta guns, armaments that were far more troublesome to Ceramite plate than las and shot could ever be. Wrethan saw a man-mower lashing out with a pair of sparking whips, tearing into everything it could find. Great gouges were rent into power armour and thick blood flowed in its wake. Return shots smashed into it from all directions, wearing it down, but too slowly. Even as the Chaplain watched a mechanical arm bearing a melta gun came about and fired a stream of sub-fusion fire, hitting a Tactical Marine dead on. Ceramite bubbled for a second and then ran, like ice before a blowtorch, as the beam tore through the Brother and out the other side, leaving a hole as big as a man's head through his chest.

Wrethan roared in anger to see a Brother slain and his legs carried him towards the foe. He raised Redeeming-Flame high and bellowed, "His justice comes for you!"

Yet before he could reach the foe there was a flash of lightning and a blaze of silver as two twin claws stuck deeply. The man-mower shrieked as the energised claws tore it apart and then it disintegrated, falling into chunks to reveal Captain Erathor standing behind it.

Wrethan saw the Captain already throwing himself back into the fight but did not follow him, instead calling "Apothecary!"

From out of the fray emerged Santes, his Narthecium already prepping to retrieve the sacred progenoids of the fallen Brother. "Guard him," Wrethan ordered a pair of Tacticals, as Santes went to work, the value of the gene-seed so monumental that it justified holding back a pair of Space Marines from the fray. Wrethan left them to it, rituals of Mourning would come later, but right now the Space Marines needed to concentrate on the battle. So he threw himself back into the fight, smashing enemies apart with great sweeps of his Crozius. The Heretics reeled under the renewed onslaught, shattered by the Astartes' superior strength and power. In minutes the fighting in this quarter had ended and the Space Marines found themselves surrounded by piles of corpses.

Erathor wasted not a moment to call, "Get melta bombs on those storage tanks and spike the mechanisms. Show no respect for the Machine Spirits, this is the work of Heretics."  
Wrethan walked up to him and said, "Resistance was greater than we anticipated."

"It's a priority target," Erathor verbally shrugged, "It was unlikely to be undefended."  
Wrethan shook his skull-helm and pressed, "More than that the concentration of forces, and the improvement to the foe's weapons, speaks volumes. We were expected."

Erathor glanced about and said, "The Heretics have someone with a working brain then, but no matter, we will break this place open regardless. We must press on, there are many more objectives to take and we need to be done before their reinforcements arrive."

Wrethan nodded and said, "I will lead the next assault."  
"No," Erathor ordered, "I will take point, you need to head west. Tygra's strike team is bogged down."

Wrethan started at that, Tygra had taken three squads to lead a flank attack, as the Codex dictated. It was hard to imagine anything that could trouble thirty Space Marines, but he did not question the order. Erathor's duty was to devise and implement strategy, the Chaplain's was to support and guide the Brothers, if the flank attack needed him to fire their spirits then that is where they had to be. Wrethan immediately turned and headed west, covering the ground with immense strides of his legs. He set a pace that would cripple most human athletes, yet it was a speed he could maintain for hours, days if necessary.

Behind him the fighting resumed as the main force advanced once more but Wrethan focused on the path ahead, wary of ambushes. He was alone for a moment and vulnerable, so he kept off the main routes, taking smaller avenues that let him avoid trouble. Thankfully his journey was unmolested, and he soon found evidence of Tygra's advance. He turned and followed the trail of devastation, noting the lines of blinking melta-bombs fixed to the area's machinery as he did so. His genhanced senses detected the familiar scents of blood and death but also a tangy brine, evidence that this facility was near to the coast of the polluted ocean.

He clicked his vox, requesting an update but all he received in return was static. It was not long before he caught up to the strike team, hearing the sounds of battle coming from a complex collection of gantries and open-framed machinery, shaped like a square three stories high. Pumping machinery and filtration tanks whirred as he entered, the oblivious Machine spirits labouring on regardless. His hearing discerned the noises of machinery from those of fighting and he detected bolters firing high above, yet his eye was drawn to a dark doorway on his level, from which he heard the noise of an Eviscerator spinning.

Wrethan immediately turned that way and dove within, passing into the darkness. His autosenses cut through it with ease and after a moment he emerged into a large chamber, where Captain Tygra was standing utterly still surrounded by broken bodies. Wrethan stepped within and called, "Tygra…" yet the Captain stopped him with a raised palm. Wrethan was bemused, he didn't understand why Tygra was merely holding still as his Evicerator spun.

A heartbeat later he found out why, for the floor shook beneath his feet as a huge triangular head burst out of the ground and split open to reveal a gaping maw filled with teeth. Tygra was already moving, throwing himself aside as his Evicerator lashed out. It struck a thick hide and tore a ragged gash, but could not penetrate any further. In return the head snapped at him once and then retreated, diving back underground. Wrethan was already running forward but the Flesh-Golem had withdrawn and his tactical conditioning identified the threat from the briefing slates: a Mortis-Wyrm.

Wrethan reached Tygra but went still as he called, "What are you doing here?"  
Wrethan replied, "Erathor lost contact, he thought you were in trouble."

"This damned structure blocks our vox," Tygra retorted, "Then we ran into this thing."  
Wrethan advised, "Be still, it hunts via vibration."

Tygra snapped back, "I know, I read the slates too."  
"Then turn off your Eviscerator," Wrethan stated, "It's making too much noise."

Tygra's helm turned to take in the weapon, as if in surprise, but then he thumbed a rune and the spinning blade stopped moving. Wrethan went utterly still as he scoured the dark chamber, taking in the concealing shadows and the alcoves hidden between various devices. The Mortis-Wyrm could come from anywhere and he was on a hair-trigger. Still as statues they waited, unmoving and alert, but then Wrethan felt the ground shake beneath him.

Suddenly the huge head burst free of the ground, maw already opening to consume him as Wrethan spun about to greet it. Gaping jaws widened to swallow him but his hands went high and low and caught the hardened edges, locking it in place. The Flesh-Golem was brought to a shuddering halt and tried to pull back but Wrethan clung on firmly, gripping its maw with iron pressure. It thrashed and screamed as it tried to retreat but the Chaplain's strength was unbreakable and his feet were securely planted in the broken floor.

The creature shock back and forth but was trapped in place, unable to move at all, then came the screaming tones of an Evicerator starting. From the side Tygra dove in, swinging his blade wide to strike its hide. This time it cut deeply, tearing through the Flesh-Golem and slicing into internal organs. The Mortis-Wyrm screamed in denial but Tygra leaned into the strike, sawing his blade back and forth like a butcher as he worked ever deeper. Turgid blood sprayed everywhere, coating their armour in filth but Wrethan clung on as Tygra sawed it in half, chopping off the great head with a lumberjack's relentless rhythm. Finally the creature was silent, and Wrethan found himself holding its severed head by the jaws. He threw it aside in disgust and beheld the body collapse in on itself, oozing out onto the broken floor.

Wrethan nodded begrudgingly at the Captain, acknowledging his aid as he said, "Good strike."  
Tygra for his part merely lifted his Eviscerator and gunned the drive, spraying blood from the spinning blades as he replied, "I did enjoy seeing you act as bait."

Wrethan looked away and was about to suggest they rejoin the fighting but a strange noise made him look back. Behind him Tygra was stood stock still, his savage weapon held upright before him, yet he was frozen solid. The reason for that was obvious; a lighting wreathed sword point was sticking a clear foot through his chest, driven through his back and out the other side. Wrethan gasped in shock at the mortal wound dealt to Tygra and took a desperate step forward, but it was already too late, the blow was a fatal one.

Tygra's grip on his weapon failed and he dropped the Eviscerator to the ground as his head slumped forward in death. "No…" Wrethan breathed but even as he watched Tygra's corpse slipped forward, sliding off the blade's point to crash face first to the ground as thick Transhuman blood spread across the hard ferrocrete. Wrethan could hardly believe that Tygra was dead, but he had no time to lament for a new enemy presented himself.

Stepping from the shadows came a Space Marine in black armour of an ancient mark. His head was covered by a stained hood but his armour bore arcane icons of hourglasses, skulls and spirals. In his hands was a great broadsword of wondrous craftsmanship, that he held in an expert grip and his face was cool and disinterested. Wrethan had never laid eyes on this one before but he instantly recognised what he was, a corrupted and damned Astartes: a Chaos Marine. Wrethan's blood thundered in his ears as his rage frothed over, a legacy of hate wrought over ten thousand years making any other response impossible.

Wrethan gripped Redeeming-Flame tightly and snarled, "Traitor! I will kill you for that!"  
The other merely shifted his grip a fraction and remarked nonchalantly, "You can try, but you will fail."

The taunt set the Chaplain's anger blazing and rage consumed his hearts as he leapt at the Traitor and the true battle was joined.


	26. Chapter 26

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 26**

Wrethan's Crozius cast a haze of golden light as it flew through the air, leaving a smear of colour behind it. It illuminated the dank space, covering everything in a radiance that was quite at odds with the shabby surroundings. Wrethan drove Redeeming-flame forward with all of his strength and speed, fury lending weight to his arm and outrage quickening his movements. His strike was as potent as any he had ever enacted, swift, sure and sudden, yet it did not land.

Before his weapon could make contact the Chaos Marine swung his broadsword up to parry, catching Redeeming-flame on the razor sharp edge. There was a flare of light and energy as its disruption field met the concussive aura of the Crozius and the two weapons struggled for supremacy. Wrethan found himself stalemated; unable to push through the flaring energies, yet he had anticipated the counter and was preparing to attack again. Unfortunately what he had not anticipated was that his opponent would suddenly twist his blade, diverting the flow of the attack and then counter with a strike of his own. One second the two weapons were locked together, rigid and immobile, then the next the point of the blade was coming right at Wrethan's face.

The Chaplain was forced to throw himself backwards to avoid having his head skewered, falling back and waving his Crozius defensively across his body. He found no respite in his withdrawal for the blade came at him again, feinting high and then sweeping in low for his leg. Wrethan saw the feint coming and moved to block the low strike but even as he did so the sword twisted about and flicked high, going for his shoulder. With Transhuman speed Wrethan saw his options diminishing; if he tried to block or dodge he would expose himself to a follow-up blow, so he did the opposite. He lurched forward, within the reach of the blade, and jabbed with the head of his Crozius, trying to hit the Traitor's belly armour. It was a reckless and clumsy manoeuvre but it should have worked regardless, yet impossibly the sword was suddenly between them again, blocking his strike.

The flare of energies sent them both staggering but Wrethan was stunned by more than the physical shock. That block should have been impossible, he knew how fast and agile a typical Space Marine was and parrying his strike was well beyond the ability of most Astartes. Only the finest swordmasters could have attempted such a feat, Company and Chapter Champions who were at one with their blades. Wrethan had seen a few of those in his time, each one an exemplar of swordplay, and he realised with a sickening lurch that this Traitor counted amongst the finest of them.

While Wrethan had been processing that fact his opponent had withdrawn a few steps, holding his blade up between them. The Traitor gazed at him levelly and remarked, "Not bad, you make good use of your weight and strength, but the limited reach of your mace puts you at a disadvantage."

Wrethan gripped his Crozius tighter and snarled, "I have nothing to say to you, Traitor."

The Chaos Marine's eyes didn't waver but he uttered, "Your ignorance is pitiable, you know nothing of me."

Wrethan took a step to the right, which was mirrored by his opponent and he snarled, "I know everything I need to, you are a Heretic and a betrayer and I, Wrethan of the Storm Heralds, shall deliver the Emperor's justice upon you."

The Traitor smirked under his cowl as he replied, "I had forgotten such niceties, pompous declarations of titles and other grandiose boasts are such formal things. But if that's how you want to do it, then I am Sar Christof, from nowhere."

Wrethan's eyes were scouring his opponent, looking for a weakness as he snarled, "Do not pretend to cling to honour, you stabbed Tygra in the back!"

This Christof frowned as he retorted, "Of course I did, what else should I have done, let him hit me first?"

Wrethan snarled in outrage at the casual dismissal of the Captain's life and launched himself into a flurry of blows. Yet it seemed Christof had been expecting that, for he backpedalled to the right and his own blade darted out, stabbing for Wrethan's hearts. The ponderous weight of his heavy blade flew at the Chaplain and he knew if it stuck true then he would die, but an instant before the blade could land there was a flash of brilliant light and a sheath of pure energy enveloped the Chaplain. It was the Conversion field projected by his sacred Rosarius, protecting him with an arcane shield of faith. Christof was flung back by the blazing aura and Wrethan seized the moment, swinging for his opponent's heart. Yet, dazzled as he was, the Traitor was still supremely skilled and wove left, so the golden head of the Crozius merely scored across his pauldron, cracking the ceramite but doing no further damage.

Christof fell back and Wrethan pursued, but he was forced to break off as the heavy sword went low and tried to take his leg off below the knee. Christof recovered his poise swiftly, his Mark II armour growling loudly as he exclaimed, "A conversion field, I have seen one of those in millennia. I must have been fighting mortals for too long to neglect that, but it won't save you twice."

Wrethan did not dignify that with a response, instead launching a fresh flurry of blows. He eschewed subtly and skill, favouring lashing out with wide sweeps of his Crozius in an attempt to batter his foe into submission with raw savagery. His rage frothed over and his world shrank until all he could see was the vile Traitor and he strove to his utmost to bring him low. Strike after strike he unleashed, a blizzard of blows that should have claimed victory thrice over, yet somehow the Heretic did not fall. Through his torrent of anger Wrethan saw that every attack was parried, every strike coolly deflected and not one blow had landed. Then Christof counter-attacked.

The Traitor's hands flowed over each other and his weapon rolled across the top of Wrethan's guard, flickering upwards to stab at his shoulder. Ceramite parted as the point slashed through his flesh below, letting blood flow. The strike was not potent enough to trigger his Rosarius, but it was telling nonetheless and the Chaplain snarled in fury as he tried to strike back. Yet there was no time to go on the offensive for another blow and another came at him, each one bypassing his guard with ease. The Traitor seemed to have doubled his speed, a blinding velocity that let him place his blows wherever he wished. Again and again Wrethan's black armour was rent by precise lunges and his blood flowed freely down his legs as the Traitor sliced him over and over.

Wrethan was fighting totally defensively, falling back towards the wall behind him. The whirlwind of thrusts pursued him, tearing at his armour repeatedly and Wrethan realised that this Christof had adapted his style to match another Transhuman, he now held the edge over the Chaplain. Wrethan knew he couldn't win this fight, not like this but he remained a Space Marine and would die before admitting it, not when he saw another option, a way to turn the tables on his foe.

Wrethan waited until the sword point nicked his right side and then grabbed his bolt pistol in his left hand, bringing it up as he squeezed the trigger. A thunderous hammering erupted as a spray of bolt rounds flew forth, wildly hitting all around. It was a poorly aimed salvo, but then that had not been Wrethan's intent, for it made Christof angle his blade to counter, deflecting rounds away from his body. The blade was back in position in a heartbeat but at that moment Wrethan had dove past the Traitor, running straight for the open door.

Christof actually sounded offended as he called, "I wasn't done with you yet!" Wrethan ignored the cry as he heard the Traitor pursuing him, heavy footfalls ringing out, matching him step for step. Wrethan did not pause to look behind but redoubled his pace, racing back the way he had come. He emerged into the wider area where he had entered and spun upon his heel, bringing up his bolt pistol to point back. Unfortunately Christof was even closer than he realised, the sword already swinging to shear off the barrel of the gun in a spray of sparks.

Wrethan was forced to drop the sundered weapon and defend himself as the blade swung for him again. The weapons clashed with peals of thunder and lightning as Christof snapped, "Running from a foe, you thin-blooded mongrels would shame the Ultramarines of old."

Wrethan staggered as a thrust cut his thigh, he swung Redeeming-flame as hard as he could as he spat, "You Traitors will never understand!"

Christof smiled coldly as he nicked and gouged at Wrethan's armour and he probed, "Understand what?"

Wrethan retreated desperately, parrying for all he was worth as he cried, "That to fight for the Emperor is to give up your own ambitions and join yourself to something greater. To know that you serve a greater cause and that your life and death have meaning."

Christof actually paused in his onslaught and his eyes narrowed as he hissed, "Are you… are you trying to make me repent? You want me to ask for forgiveness? I tell you I have nothing to atone for, I betrayed no one that did not betray me first. I have done nothing in my life that I regret."

"No," Wrethan uttered as he felt his body burning from countless wounds, "I am telling you that no one who fights for the Emperor does so alone."

Suddenly there was the clatter of many feet as three squads of Storm Heralds came bounding out of the darkness above, drawn by the sounds of fighting. Christof's head snapped up, seeing Astartes converging on him from all directions and grasping that he was caught in a closing web of foes. "Very clever…" he hissed, then he was bounding away and racing off into the dark. Wrethan's hand ached for his bolt pistol but it was gone so all he could do was give chase, as the squads closed in.

Christof dashed away from him, running as fast as a Space Marine could and it was all Wrethan could do to keep up. Christof seemed to know where he was going but his route was suddenly blocked as a Sergeant stepped out into his path. It was Namion and Wrethan saw his bolter coming up, but too slowly, too damned slow. In the instant before he could fire Christof's blade flashed and Namion's head was torn from his shoulders, leaving him a toppling corpse.

"No!" Wrethan cried as Christof spun to face him, "Your treachery ends here!"

Christof glanced about, seeing the squads surrounding him on all sides and from above, but then he grinned and said, "Do you think I've lived this long without always having my escape route planned?"

Suddenly he reversed his grip on his sword and drove it point first into the floor. The powerful energy field tore apart the metal decking and splintered the plasteel panels, causing the whole section to collapse around the Traitor's feet. Wrethan was forced to leap clear to avoid falling into the darkness below but Christof dropped like a stone, vanishing into a cunningly concealed pit.

Wrethan was stunned for a moment, but only a moment and he looked into the gaping hole to see a tunnel entrance before him, leading to Throne knows where. The Chaplain was about to leap into the pit and give pursuit but a second before he could move there was a dull thud and the tunnel collapsed, its entrance undermined by a dropped grenade. Wrethan staggered back as the pit widened, filling the tunnel with debris and he gritted his teeth knowing that by the time they cleared the rubble the Traitor would be long gone.

Wrethan's hearts burned with the need for vengeance but he saw the squads looking dismayed and knew they needed his guidance. He turned to them and snapped, "Don't just stand there, the melta bombs will go off soon, we need to clear this area!"

A tactical marine called out, "Where is Captain Tygra?"

"Fallen," Wrethan answered, "But we have no time to mourn. Quickly retrieve his body and Namion's, we must fall back and link up with Erathor immediately."

The squads obeyed, responding as they had been conditioned to the authority of orders, but as they dispersed Wrethan glanced back at the pit where Christof had made his escape. He gripped his Crozius tighter and growled angrily, "Run all you like Traitor, but this isn't over. I will find you and make you pay for the lives you have taken, this I swear in the name of the Emperor."


	27. Chapter 27

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 27**

Sparks flew from Wrethan's armour as the cutting saw worked on the joints between his plates. A high pitched screech accompanied this as the tools gnawed their way into the bezels and clasps holding the outer layer of Ceramite to the exoskeletal undersheath. Dozens of tools were poking into Wrethan from a multitude of angles, levering apart broken edges and teasing out ceramite shards from his flesh. One corner of his breastplate had collapsed and jammed under his arm, so a cutting torch had to be applied. It was laborious work but necessary, his armour was badly damaged and needed repair. The fact that he was in agony was inconsequential.

Wrethan stood stock still with his arms outstretched as a dozen serf-artificers removed his damaged armour. They applied the tools of their craft with loving devotion, uttering soothing chants of appeasement as they did so. As each broken piece was removed from his frame they were laid out on velvet cushions and anointed with sacred oils, before being carried deeper into the repair-shrine for consecration. Wrethan watched as his armour was given over to the care of the serf-adepts, ignoring the digging of the tools and the torches burning his flesh, his attention fully upon his armour's care.

A Space Marine's armour was more than a suit of powered plate; it was a comrade as dear to them as any Brother. Every Astartes treated his armour with reverential devotion and undertook painstaking rites of maintenance. This was essential, a lovingly maintained suit might well save its bearer's life, but a Marine who showed less than absolute respect could be struck down by a single stray bolt-round; such were the mysterious ways of the machine spirits. Wrethan would have preferred to work on the plate himself but he was not inducted into the enigmatic ways of the cult-mechanicus; the serf-artisans could provide blessings he could not.

Wrethan's skull-helm had been removed, revealing his scarred face and the slightest wince tugged at his lip as a saw was applied to the edge of his breastplate. The clasps on one side had been driven inwards, driving metal spikes into his Black Carapace implant and forceps had to be used to tease them from his flesh. Blood flowed as the spikes came free and then the whole breastplate finally came off, peeling the fused undersheath away with it. His exposed chest was a nightmare of scars and chemical burns, his Black Carapace scorched bare by the kiss of Phospex. That wound had nearly ended Wrethan's life but he had clung on through sheer determination, refusing to die while his services were still needed. This had occurred while the Storm Herald's Fortress-Monastery was under siege by the Dusk Prince Vorshaan, an invasion repulsed at great cost. Wrethan had been laid out in an apothecarion for the duration, listening to the sounds of his Brothers dying while he was reduced to a helpless invalid. It had been the greatest shame of his life that he could not fight in that war, until a far greater disgrace had overtaken him.

Wrethan heard a serf hiss as he examined the breastplate, augmetic implants for eyes examining the microfractures to a molecular level. Wrethan frowned and asked, "Can it be repaired?"

The serf shook his head and said, "No, not this piece. The rest can be restored but this breastplate is ruined, it will have to be replaced entirely."

Wrethan lowered his head sadly and said, "Let it have the most solemn of decommissioning's, it gave stalwart service to the last."

"Then you should take better care of your armour," the serf snapped as he walked away with the forlorn breastplate.

Wrethan had no objection to the serf's curt tone, which was as it should be. A serf-artisan's first duty was to the gear and armour of the Chapter. It was right and proper that they should hold the welfare of the Machine Spirits above paltry concerns about the feelings of the user. In the Imperium of Man most machines were ten or twenty times older than their users, passed from hand to hand over generations. Wrethan himself would have the sternest condemnation for any Astartes whose own attitude to his gear was less than reverential.

The final pieces of his armour were finally removed and Wrethan stepped out of the circle of serfs. He left them to their labours and shrugged on a coarse robe, then he took up his Rosarius and hung it around his neck. Finally he picked up Redeeming-flame and attached it to a belt around his hips. Properly dressed, he lifted his head high and stepped from the repair-shrine, emerging into the light of day. Around him the Astartes' forward base was filled with busy activity, the various squads hastening to their duties and serfs-quartermasters worked to restock their ammunition. The strike force had returned less than an hour ago from their mission and were already preparing to march back to war.

Wrethan was satisfied that their primary objective had been completed, the desalination plant was a burning ruin, but the cost had been grievously high. Swiftly Wrethan set off to find Captain Erathor, nodding to various Brothers as he did so. Erathor wasn't hard to find, standing in the middle of the camp and talking with Santes. The Apothecary was fussing over three biers, which bore the bodies of the fallen: Brothers Kylva, Namion and Tygra.

Santes was talking as Wrethan closed, "Three lives lost in one strike, three!"

Erathor replied sternly, "We knew this war would be harrowing going in, but it was a necessary sacrifice."

Santes muttered, "We can't recruit or replace our losses while we are on a Pentient Crusade. At this rate there won't be any of us left to complete this Death Oath."

Wrethan walked up to them and declared, "That is in the hands of the Emperor, our only concern must be our duty."

Both of them turned to face him and Erathor uttered, "Chaplain, it is good that you have come. I need to hear more of this Traitor you fought."

Wrethan came to stand beside them and explained, "A corrupted and damned Astartes, from which Traitor Legion I am not sure, but still a Chaos Marine."

Erathor scowled as he said, "The presence of Traitor Marines was not anticipated, we have had no reports of the foul minions of Chaos having such filth amongst them. Was there any sign that he was alone or were there more of them?"

Wrethan mused, "Unclear but it would explain the Heretic's fierce resistance, even a handful could wreck carnage. Perhaps the failure of the Ecclesiarchy is not due entirely to incompetence."

Distractedly Erathor mused, "Perhaps someone in the galaxy knows more, I will send out an Astropathic call regarding this traitor and see if anyone knows who he is. Surely someone in the Imperium must recognise his description."

Santes' eyes narrowed as he hissed, "He cut down two of our Brothers, like they were nothing."

Wrethan concurred, "We shall avenge them, this Traitor cannot elude us for long."

Testily Santes spat, "I suppose you're glad to see the end of Tygra."

Wrethan was offended by such talk and uttered, "Tygra and I had our differences, but he was yet a Brother to me, I mourn his death."

Santes wasn't mollified and growled, "He was right you know, he said he would never see this redemption you speak of and so it came to pass. He died exactly as he predicted."

That remark struck deep and Wrethan lowered his head and said, "A tragedy but Tygra never really believed in our cause. He mocked and undermined us from the start; he did not give himself over to his atonement. We must be better than that."

"Fine words," Santes snorted, "But only words."

But then Wrethan's eyes fell to the Apothecary's arm and he growled, "Your chains are broken."

"What?" Santes started looking at his left arm where a deep groove bisected his Chains of Shame, "Oh yes, I took a hit from an electro-staff."

"You will repair them," Wrethan growled.

"In time," Santes demurred, not caring that the signs of his disgrace were imperfect.

"Not later," Wrethan snarled, "Now."

The two stood facing each other but then Erathor interrupted to say, "We can argue later, here comes Holois."

Wrethan turned and beheld the wizened serf making his way to them, somehow avoiding being run over by the tide of traffic. Wrethan's hearts fell at the sight but he steeled himself for the interrogation to come. Holois picked his way over to them and bowed saying, "Hail my lords, I come to fulfil my duty."

Wrethan stonily replied, "Rememberancer, three souls present themselves for judgement."

Holois took up his book and said, "How did they die?"

Santes waved at the first and said, "Brother Kylva died fighting the enemies of the Emperor. He stove to the last for victory against the machinations of Chaos but he took a melta blast at close range."

Holois made a note and said, "Did he die fighting for himself or for his Brothers?"

Erathor added, "I saw him stand shoulder to shoulder with his kin, never showing fear or hesitation. He gave his life for the Emperor and His flock."

Holois made another note as Santes said, "Brother Namion was cut down by a Traitor Marine."

"How did he die?" Holois inquired.

Wrethan answered, "The Traitor fled from us but Namion tired to stop him, he blocked the path but sadly the Traitor proved to be his match."

Holois glanced up and said, "The Traitor escaped, so Namion died for nothing."

Wrethan disagreed, "Namion surely knew he was outmatched but he did not retreat before his executioner. He tried to stop the Traitor, even though the odds of success were against him. Namion sold his own life to buy us time, giving his all for the cause with no thought for his own welfare."

Holois made another note and said, "And Tygra?"

Wrethan swallowed but then reluctantly said, "Tygra was ambushed, taken from behind and cut down."

Holois' looked at the body and remarked, "Stabbed in the back, a poor ending."

Wrethan didn't like the sound of that and argued, "The enemy was cunning and skilled, Tygra cannot be judged for the misfortunes of war."

Yet Holois was already closing his book and said, "That is not a worthy death, struck down for no good cause. Tygra did not die fighting for another; he did not lay down his life for some great cause. He died with his oath unfulfilled."

Erathor stepped forward and said, "War is a harsh mistress, Tygra fought as hard as any, that deserves consideration."

Yet Holois declared, "Brothers Kylva and Namion died well and redeemed their honour at the last. I hold their Death Oaths fulfilled and declare that their sins are expunged in the Emperor's sight. However Tygra did not die so nobly, his deeds do not expiate his failings in life. I hold his Death Oath unfulfilled, his sins are not expunged in the Emperor's sight."

Wrethan wanted to argue the point, to see Tygra cast down was a harsh blow. He and the Captain had argued often but the Chaplain had thought he could be redeemed. Yet it seemed at the end Tygra had been right, about himself at least. With a heavy heart Wrethan turned to Santes and said, "Send the gene-seed of Kylva and Namion to the Pax Mortis for cyro-storage. Their names shall be added to the Scrolls of Honour. But Tygra shall have no legacy among us, burn his gene-seed and dump the body."

Santes' lip curled in disgust but he drew a single canopic jar from his belt and clenched it in his fist as he stormed off, with Holois in tow. The remaining pair watched the serf follow Santes away and Erathor sighed, "Damnation, that was hard to endure."

Wrethan couldn't argue with that and said, "I thought it might be otherwise but that was a fool's hope. Still we cannot idle when a war is yet to be won."

Erathor drew in a deep breath and said, "Indeed, we need to keep the initiative."

Wrethan stated solemnly, "I will speak to the Cardinal again, as soon as my armour is repaired."

Erathor started in surprise and asked, "You think you can convince them to change their minds?"

Wrethan nodded as he answered, "We have a solid victory under our belts, that should sway them. I think I can now make an ally out of a rival."

Erathor didn't sound convinced as he muttered, "I don't see how."

"It shouldn't be hard," Wrethan explained, "I've seen Captain Toran do it often enough, I think I know what to do."

Erathor snorted at that, he and Toran had taken an instant dislike to each other in the past, but he stated, "You are welcome to try but I wouldn't expect miracles."

Wrethan however was more confident, he was certain the Cardinal would see reason now, he couldn't fail to grasp that an alliance between their forces would win this war outright. Beside if Toran could forge alliances out of nothing, then how hard could it be?


	28. Chapter 28

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 28**

The new breastplate was slightly narrower than the previous one, its contours subtly different to the ruined plate. Wrethan could feel it digging into his chest in a number of places, catching the interface sockets bored into his flesh. Wrethan had spent hours carefully repainting it black and polishing the winged skull on its front, lovingly applying lapping powders and unguents as he recited the litanies of maintenance. Now it was part of his armour, bonded to him and he to it.

Wrethan put it from his mind as the diatribe droned into his ears, an ongoing lecture that had been waffling for quite some time. The speaker was Confessor E'zard, who had been spitting forth a tide of bile. Across from him sat Inquisitor Luco, who seemed oddly subdued, with his head tucked into his chin and not speaking at all. Between them sat Cardinal Pontius Pilate, with his attendant sister-flagellators, listening to E'zard's rant. The group had met once again in the small bare chamber of the temple where the Ecclesiarchy made their base, though Wrethan was starting to wish he hadn't bothered.

Wrethan drew in a slow breath and then cut in, "Are you done?"

E'zard blinked as his rant was interrupted and spat, "You have some nerve."

Wrethan ignored that and faced Pilate as he said, "I didn't come here to speak to a worthless lackey. I came to talk to you Cardinal."

E'zard spluttered at that but Pilate spoke up, "I agreed to this meeting against my better judgement, whatever you have to say it better be good."

Wrethan fought the urge to snap back and instead stated coolly, "I am here to discuss the strategic situation and unite our forces for the battle to come."

"A battle you started," E'zard snapped, "What were you thinking, attacking behind enemy lines."

Wrethan was glad his skull-helm kept his expression hidden as he explained, "We destroyed the Heretic's only source of drinking water, cutting off a vital supply line."

E'zard growled, "You mean you stirred them up, now they cannot sit back and wait, there's no telling what they will do."

"This war had stalemated," Wrethan stated, "The balance of power lay with the enemy, but now they will be forced into rash action. We need to be ready."

E'zard sneered, "Again you seek to seize power."

Wrethan tried to make them understand by saying, "The enemies of mankind gather together, Heretics, monsters and Traitors, all united to seek our destruction."

Luco finally stirred and said, "You stand by your assertion that Chaos Marines are present in Tethys?"

Wrethan nodded as he replied, "I saw a Traitor with my own eyes."

"Interesting," Luco murmured distractedly before falling silent.

Wrethan wasn't sure what game the Inquisitor was playing but he urged, "Surely now is the time to put aside our differences and unite in the face of our common foe."

E'zard however barked, "The Ecclesiarchy does not take orders from the Astartes!"

Wrethan had never wanted to snap a man's neck more than he did right now, but he bit down on that. He was here to make allies and knew he had to present himself the right way. He thought back to the occasions when he had seen his old Captain forge friendships out of adversity and asked himself what Toran would do. Probably make some big speech, appealing to their nobility and self-interest at the same time, he concluded. Wrethan tried to sound calm as he uttered, "The forces of Chaos are massing and intend to destroy us all. They care nothing for our squabbles, if we are divided and weak they will shatter us. We must overcome our differences and present a united front; working together we can defeat the foe and reclaim this city for the Imperium. The Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor is within your grasp, all you have to do is stand with us and we can take it once and for all. I ask you not to follow us, but to stand with us, as comrades in arms."

The words were bold and confident, filling the chamber with Wrethan's plea. The Chaplain looked upon the men and watched for their reaction but to his dismay, they did not seem moved. Luco's face was as stone and E'zard sneered silently but Cardinal Pilate gripped his chair tightly and said, "I have heard enough, this is a waste of time, we will never ally ourselves with sinners."

Wrethan's hope died as he saw the Cardinal was set in his path. He tried one last gambit, urging, "If you try to fight the Heretics alone you will drown in your own blood."

But Pilate lifted his chin and declared, "We will pay any price the God-Emperor requires of us."

Wrethan shook his head as he warned them, "You are leading your forces to defeat, this is no worthy tribute for Him on Terra."

Yet Pilates set his jaw and uttered, "The road lies before us and we walk it with His grace. The final victory is at hand. We don't need your aid, go back to the stars and trouble us no more."

Wrethan's contempt for these fools burned in his throat and he spun on his heel to storm out, leaving the trio to their deluded scheming. He marched down the bare corridors at a furious clip, passing the electro sconces on the walls without pause. He saw a gaggle of priests before him but didn't slow, forcing them to scatter from his path in a panic as he stomped past. He left them in his wake without a second's thought, his mind chewing on the dire turn of events. He replayed the conversation over and over in his mind, but could not see how he could have played it any differently. Yet at the back of his mind a small voice sulked that this would have worked, were Toran here, the Captain had an innate gift for making alliances and forging friendships. Frustrated beyond measure he muttered to himself, "Warp hells, how does Toran make this look so easy?"

Wrethan's feet had taken him from the temple and he emerged out into the grounds. All around him the excruciation racks were laid out, filled with screaming and weeping mortals. Amongst them moved confessors, applying pain-goads and branding irons as required. Wrethan paid no mind to them, these sinners were paying the just penalty for their cowardice and the Chaplain knew they would emerge braver and more devoted for having their spirits corrected. He set off, heading away from the temple and intending to leave immediately, yet he was brought up short by a cry of "Chaplain!"

Wrethan paused as he recognised the voice and he spied Canoness-Preceptor Phantea approaching him. The woman had removed her helm and was forced to crane her neck to peer up at the giant Space Marine but she did not look intimidated at all by his fierce visage. Wrethan slowed to a halt and then said, "Canoness, I have no time for more petty insults."

Phantea cocked her head and asked, "Went badly did it?"

Wrethan was surprised by her judgemental tone and stated, "The Cardinal would not see reason, he continues in this foolish notion that he can win this war alone."

Phantea sighed, "The Cardinal is committed to the prosecution of this war and is willing to pay any price to see it concluded. No amount of deaths are too great a cost compared to the God-Emperor's own sacrifice."

Wrethan muttered, "A fine sentiment, but it is not one that will lead you to victory. Your enemy is ready for you, the final days of this war are upon us and your commanders have no idea what is coming for them."

Phantea looked resentful as she replied, "I have often thought a few days at the front would be beneficial for our senior commanders."

Wrethan caught the odd hitch in her voice and asked, "You do not approve of the Cardinal's intransigence?"

Phantea did not answer, not directly anyway. Instead her eyes flickered to the side, where the confessors were tending to their charges. Wrethan understood her meaning, the Ecclesiarchy was not tolerant of criticism and even a Canoness who spoke ill against a Cardinal in public would be dragged away, never to be seen again. Wrethan was willing to wager that every word they said would be reported back to that snake E'zard and Inquisitor Luco would certainly have spies of his own watching them.

Phantea turned from the Chaplain and gestured about saying, "What do you think of our labours here?"

Wrethan knew she was covering, but played along, looking over the excruciation racks and stating, "I find it admirable in principle, but inefficient in execution. A simple flogging would suffice. "

Phantea scowled at that and loudly said, "Flogging? Too quick and merciful."

Wrethan saw many eyes glancing their way and boldly argued, "It has the dignity of tradition behind it, flogging is a time honoured method of encouraging the masses."

Phantea countered, "But the physical injury limits repetition, the proper application of pain-goads inflicts blessed agony without degrading the body. A sinner can endure days of torment without stopping."

"Not all of them," Wrethan pointed out, gesturing at a rack where a body hung limp and inert in the frame.

Phantea scowled as she saw the corpse and stomped over shouting, "Who is in charge of this row?"

There was a brief scuffle and then a confessor in a stained robe came forward, gripping a pain-goad tightly as he stammered, "I... I am."

"Explain this!" Phantea snapped at him.

Wrethan was impressed by the dangerous growl to her voice and the stern glare she inflicted on the man, revealing a hardened will born from a hundred battlefields. He revised his opinion of this woman, whatever her superiors were this one had the steel and the drive to seize victory. The man wilted before her fierce glare and uttered, "He was weak, his heart gave out… it happens sometimes."

"Lies," Wrethan's voice boomed out making the confessor and his compatriots shirk back as he continued, "Look at this body, look at the marks on his back. The skin is blackened from overexposure and the nerve endings are fried, this one was subjected to endless torment until he suffered a cardiac arrest. This was not born of a corrective impetus; this is the work of one who enjoyed seeing another in pain, someone who took pleasure in inflicting torment."

Phantea rounded on the man and spat, "This is slipshod and ill-disciplined work! You are supposed to be guiding these souls back to the righteous path, not indulging in your own petty gratifications E'zard will hear of this!"

Strangely the rebuke had little effect and the man merely lowered his head saying, "As you will."

Wrethan saw Phantea's teeth grind together and grasped that E'zard had probably deliberately picked men like this petty sadist and would be smiling upon their endeavours. Wrethan stepped in to say, "If I may, it seems that some of these men have forgotten their holy calling. They have been polluted by their own vices and let sin into their souls. This must be corrected… with blessed pain."

Phantea smiled coldly as she uttered, "An excellent suggestion and so shall it be. Take this one away for excruciation and as for the rest of you, at the end of every day you shall subject each other to your own craftsmanship, so to remind yourselves that flagellation is a selfless calling."

Many faces fell at the proclamation as Phantea turned to Wrethan and held out a hand as she said, "My thanks Chaplain, your wise counsel is appreciated."

Wrethan was certain that she had enjoyed seeing E'zard's spies knocked back and took the hand saying, "It is my honour to be of service… yet I find my spirits flagging. Pray tell me, do you have a chapel where I may mediate in private before returning to my kin?"

Phantea dropped his hand and said, "Of course, I will escort you back to our Chantry-barracks, you will not be interrupted there."

Solemnly Wrethan replied, "Lead on then."

With that the pair strode away leaving the confessors in bewildered stupefaction. Wrethan marched silently, with his head held high. He did not look at the gawping Fraters they passed, for he had bigger concerns on his mind: like the small data crystal concealed in his gauntlet. Phantea had pressed it into his palm without anyone noticing, silently giving him a message. Wrethan didn't know what was on it but he was sure it was something the Cardinal would rather he didn't see and he couldn't wait to find a secluded spot to find out what was going on.


	29. Chapter 29

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 29**

The Golem-Foundry was busier than ever, filled with the frantic labours of the Disciples of Ruin as they worked over their surgical tables. The noise of saws was mixed with the horrifying scent of bodily fluids as human beings were dismantled and fused back together in nightmarish ways. Many Flesh-Golems were being newly created but just as many were being upgraded, adding mass and armour to their frames, while their weapons were stripped out and replaced with more fitting armaments.

From one end of the chamber streamed long lines of captured prisoners, those souls who had survived the last offensive of the Fraters. They screamed in horror at what awaited them but were dragged forward by black-robed figures, who threw them into the abattoir. Some tried to fight back but their efforts were in vain, they were overpowered and forced to submit regardless, many of them weeping and praying as the scalpels and saws of the Heretics descended on them.

Christof however had other concerns; he and his comrades were within Ferro Corde's inner sanctum, facing off against the Arch-Magos. Around them the work continued on his statuesque project, half-metal men crawling over the giant artefacts with fusion torches sparking and micro-tools blurring as chattering burst of scrapcode passed between them. The noise was impressive, mixed as it was with constant screaming, but Christof put that from his mind as he looked up at the irate Magos.

Ferro Corde loomed over the trio of Fallen as he barked, "Failure! I entrusted you with my armies and you bring me failure!"

Christof wasn't moved by the outburst as he replied, "The loss of the Desalination plant was unfortunate, but not a total failure."

Ferro Corde reared up on his arachnid legs as he snarled, "The loss of that plant has crippled us! We depended on it to support our armies; no machine can endure long without the proper lubrication."

Beside Christof his comrade Rauf snorted, "Maybe you shouldn't have put it all in one place then."

Ferro Corde lowered his bulk until his head was nearly level with the trio and hissed, "Your worth is not so great that I won't kill you."

Rauf put a hand on the stock of his bolter and growled, "Try it, I dare you. I've faced far worse than you and emerged victorious."

Christof rolled his eyes at the exchange of threats and said, "Can we dispense with the petty bickering and get back to the situation at hand, we still need to prepare for the next phase."

"Next phase?" Gwayne started in surprise, "What next phase?"

Christof drew in a breath and elaborated, "Consider the wider situation. Losing the desalination plant was a blow but a minor one. Strategically little has changed; we still hold the advantage in position, firepower and ferocity."

Ferro Corde growled, "Not for long, our stockpiles of potable water are limited. Replacing the facility will take precious time, longer than our supplies will last. Our armies will start to degrade in performance soon, then our strength will diminish exponentially. Our slaves will die first, then the Flesh-Golems and finally we Disciples. I calculate we can extend that time if we start drinking the blood of the slaves but that will not change the final outcome of this war. My calculations predict that the only viable option is to launch an all-out offensive and try to win this war in one push."

Christof disagreed with that assessment and argued, "That would be a mistake, leaving the summit of the spire means abandoning the advantages of prepared positions. A single forlorn charge, into the face of insurmountable numbers, is what I've been avoiding since this war started."

"What alternative do you suggest?" Ferro Corde hissed angrily, "Waiting behind our defences until our armies start dropping dead of dehydration?"

Christof shook his head and said, "It won't come to that, the Imperials won't wait that long."

"Explain," Ferro Corde barked impatiently.

Patiently Christof elaborated, "I anticipated the Space Marine's attack on the facility, the assault was taken straight from their pedantic Codex. True our forces proved less effective against them than I had hoped, but the principle was sound. The Imperials, for all their zeal, are predictable because they follow tactical doctrine that is ten thousand years out of date. We can deduce their next moves and move to counter them. They will be expecting us to throw everything we have at them, but if we don't they can only conclude that we are greatly weakened. They won't be able to resist the urge to finish us off; their Codex is very tiresome about the importance of retaining the initiative. I tell you they will throw everything they have at us and this war will be decided one way or another long before the issue of water supplies becomes drastic."

Ferro Corde sounded suspicious as he muttered, "Your argument is based on supposition and untested hypothesis."

Christof countered, "I call it experience, I faced one of their number in combat, a Chaplain. It was refreshing to fight a challenging opponent; I've grown bored fighting mortals. I took his measure and he was bold, harsh and zealous, a Marine like that won't be content to still back and wait us out, he will be aching to face me again. I tell you these Imperials only know one way to behave; they will come at us for one final confrontation, winner takes all."

Ferro Corde sank back and whirred to himself as cogitators in his head ran computations, then he uttered, "Assuming your argument is valid a definitive battle is indeed inevitable. We need to prepare for their assault."

Then Rauf spoke up, "You need to improve your Flesh-Golems, they still aren't a match for Space Marines."

Gwayne added, "Could we outfit them with Plasma weaponry?"

Ferro Corde waved a metal hand as a negative and stated, "Plasma technology requires rare elements and superior expertise to implement. We have neither the time nor the resources to mass-produce such weapons. However, melta-guns and thermic knives are easier to produce; I can refit the Flesh-Golems with such armaments relatively easily."

"That should hamper the Space Marines at least," Gwayne muttered, "But it won't be enough to turn the tide against the sheer numbers the Imperials enjoy."

Ferro Corde sounded thoughtful as he mused, "If we cannot out-produce the Imperials then we must make our existing units more effective. Come with me."

Christof watched in surprise as the Magos turned and scuttled away, moving rapidly to the far end of the sanctum. Curious, the trio followed him to a shadowed alcove, where two gurneys were laid out. Upon each of them was a human body, face down and partially dissected. One was missing a head while the other was truncated below the waist and Christof recognised them to be the tongueless assassins he had defeated, not so far from this spot.

Christof looked over them with mild interest and said, "What is the point of this?"

Ferro Corde skittered around the bodies and in one of his characteristic mood swings babbled excitedly, "I collected the remains of these assassins and examined them in detail. The autopsy revealed most interesting things, most interesting indeed. These two have been modified by atypical technology, a variant of Augmetics I have never seen before. Such technology does not conform to any known STC pattern; this is a facet of machine lore unknown to those blinkered fools on Mars. I struggle to understand how these beings could have received such singular implants."

Rauf sniffed, "Probably the handiwork of the Inquisition. I've tussled with them a few times and they have all kinds of interesting toys. Things they shouldn't have; things nobody should have."

Gwayne didn't sound impressed as he said, "Odd as it is that doesn't help us, their Augmetics were no match for us."

Yet Ferro Corde twittered, "Physically no, but I refer not their hardware upgrades but to their Binaric software processes."

Christof was confused now and said, "We are not Tech-priests; explain this to us in terms we can understand."

Ferro Corde leaned over the corpses and dipped a metal hand into the spinal column of the one missing a lower half. He came up with a glittering web of fine elements wrapped around his fingers, a delicate lattice of shimmering strings. They were no thicker than a human hair but in those strands were nestled tiny flecks of some strange material, unlike anything Christof had seen before. Ferro Corde held it up to the light and explained, "Most augmetics tie into the organic nervous system, mimicking biological processes, it is how most subjects learn to use their new limbs so easily. But this is totally different, a neural net that supersedes the nervous system entirely, replacing it with something far faster and more precise. "

Rauf frowned as he asked, "How is this possible?"

Ferro Corde gestured at the flecks caught in the web and said, "These are sentient processors, a self-aware matrix, capable of abstract reasoning."

"An abominable intelligence?!" Christof started as his hand went to his sword's hilt. He had good reason to be wary; the menace of machine minds was a threat that predated the Imperium. Even during the Great Crusade, when the Imperium was at its zenith, the danger of thinking machines was deemed so great that it would provoke the most choleric of responses. Expeditionary fleets had razed whole planets to the bedrock rather than abide a single machine mind to exist.

Yet Ferro Corde seemed amused as he stated, "Only fragments of one, tiny processors shorn from a greater cogitator. The complete unit must have been magnificent to behold once, but even these fragments are totally illegal. Being caught owning these would see one branded a Heretek on Mars."

Christof didn't let go of his sword as he asked, "How does that help us?"

Ferro Corde's metal face glinted as if amused as he said, "It is the key to finishing your little side-project."

Christof's attention was caught by that and he inquired, "You can replicate these things and use them to upgrade the intelligence of the Flesh-Golems?"

"Somewhat," Ferro Corde articulated, "They will always be savage things, but with these I can make them obey orders."

Christof went quiet as he pondered the implications, the nightmarish creations of the Disciples of Ruin being married to his tactical insight. The Flesh-Golems were feral savages, individually powerful but incapable of working together according to a larger plan. Ambushes, feints, mutually supporting combat units, he could think of a thousand ways he could use such a force to best effect, improving their performance in the field. Should he be able to control the Flesh-Golems directly then their effectiveness would increase exponentially.

Christof looked again at the glittering web in the Magos' hands and said, "So in an attempt to kill you the Inquisition has handed us the key to victory, how ironic. But how long will it take you to replicate these devices?"

"I already have," Ferro Corde chuckled as he waved his hand back into the sanctum and let loose a burst of Binaric screeching.

The masses of Disciples were sent scurrying as the twin statues roared and their forms shuddered. From within their metal and flesh hides emerged a terrible shrieking wail, as if they were in agony, but that was drowned out by a bestial roar of hate and anger. Suddenly there was the grinding rasp of motors engaging and the statutes tore themselves away from the walls with great lumbering steps. Each of them was ten metres tall, walking on a pair of bipedal legs as thick as a grown man. Their backs were hunched over, as if stooping and crested by a missile pod and two twin smoke-stacks that shimmered with heat discharge. From their shoulders hung huge armaments, one arm being a ponderous Black-lightning gun and the other a tri-part claw that hinged inwards and crackled with deadly disruption fields. Their bodies were made of metal rods and pistons but around those were woven fleshy tendrils, that curled and twitched as if alive. Positioned around their frames were a collection of vox-hailers, that projected an ear-splitting screech of pain, born from the torment of the pilots that inhabited these leviathans. All of this was covered over by broad ceramite plates, bulked out to protect vital joints. They were scored and defiled by the icons of Chaos, but underneath that were the last traces of the colours of House Hawkshroud, declaring that these Flesh-Golems had once been proud Imperial Knight walkers.

Ferro Corde reared up and spread his arms wide as he proclaimed, "Behold my greatest creations: the Sorrow-Shriekers! Now bound to my will and ready for war!"

Christof looked up at the defiled Knights and the slightest grin tugged at his lip, with firepower like this at his command the Imperials wouldn't stand a chance. He already knew how he would deploy them and was sure that the blinkered Imperial Space Marines would never see them coming. Soon he would win this war and claim his payment, then he would finally be free of his hunters once and for all.


	30. Chapter 30

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 30**

The chapel was small and isolated, set in a remote corner of the Chantry-barracks where few wandered. There were larger places of worship in the building, more finely decorated too, but they were intended to inspire and enthuse the congregation. Such places celebrated the Emperor as sovereign and warrior, emphasising his majesty and stern authority. This chapel was different, a small space for contemplation and reflection, a bastion of privacy and solitude. The space was filled with a few wooden pews, set apart by thin columns and there was a small candle stand in one corner, where the faithful could light a taper and leave a prayer. The altar was small, made of stone and carved with images of the Emperor as a seated skeleton, surrounded by shades of the dead.

Wrethan examined it thoughtfully, contemplating the meaning held within. He turned his eyes from the altar and took in the rest of the chapel, seeing various stone skulls carved into the columns and statutes of fallen martyrs. His eyes rose higher and saw the low roof was painted with a fresco of the blessed Sanguinius, laid out in the moment of his noble sacrifice, though the identity of the dark figure looming over him was deliberately vague. Hardly surprising, knowledge of the Emperor's victory over Chaos was widespread but the details of that history were half-fable and half outright obfuscation, few indeed in the Imperium knew anything of the reality of Chaos and fewer still knew of the name Horus.

Wrethan stared at the mural and was bemused, Sanguinius of all the Primarchs was the best well known, his noble sacrifice ensuring his legacy would never be forgotten. Wrethan turned his eyes back to the chapel and grasped the message writ over its walls. Sacrifice, this place was intended to remind the occupant of the importance of self-sacrifice, imparting the message that one must be ever ready to lay down one's life for the Emperor and all of mankind. It was a singular truth, no deed could be nobler than to lay down one's life for another. It was the bricks that had built the Imperium and the mortar that held it all together.

Satisfied that he had deduced the purpose of this place Wrethan took out the data-crystal and picked up a slate-reader left for him. Phantea had escorted him here, no doubt being watched every step of the way. But this was the Sister's own house, their most private location and here he at last could examine the data passed to him in secret. Wrethan lowered his bulk onto a pew, which was rather narrow for his frame and creaked alarmingly under his armoured weight. He inserted the crystal into the port and muttered the Chant of Awakening before pressing the rune marked 'ON'.

The slate hummed as the machine spirit sorted through the crystal's contents, then it began to display a series of images and dense, unparsed text. Wrethan took in the information in seconds, his tactical mind processing orders for troop movements and supply orders with a speed that a mortal would have been astounded by. The Fraters were massing for something, that was obvious from the surge of activity represented here, the signs of an army mustering for an offensive. Then he reached a break-down of battle plans and saw that the Sisters were going to lead the Fraters up the spire again, in another attempt to seize the summit. They were following a different route this time but the assault was as simple and straightforward as the last one. Wrethan's experience told him that this attempt would be no more successful than the last one, an assessment Phantea must share, else why would she pass him this information?

Wrethan's brain had been reforged to be superior to a tactical cogitator and he calculated it would take days for the Imperial faithful to ready themselves for an offensive. He pondered the implications of that, the enemy would not be idle and could hardly miss the surging activity among the slums. He eliminated several unlikely scenarios and determined that the Heretics had two options, launch a pre-emptive strike of their own or dig in and prepare to repulse the offensive. Either way he didn't think the Frater's plan would work, they would be left to die in a tide of blood and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Their lives were doomed, but their sacrifice could create an opportunity for the Astartes to act.

The thought of sacrifice stirred Wrethan and his eyes turned once more to the image of the Primarch, remembering the fates each of that legendary Brotherhood had received. Inevitably his thoughts fell upon his own Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, the Lord of Ultramar. Guilliman was unique among his brothers, for the simple fact that he was not dead, he was in fact back among the living, leading the Imperium through its darkest hour. Wrethan had wondered on occasions where his gene-father was among the stars and what battles he was fighting and sometimes in the long watches of the nights had even dared to imagine meeting him. Yet in the cold light of day Wrethan held out no such hopes, he was a Penitent, sworn to his Death Oath, he would not lay eyes upon so august a figure as the Imperial Regent.

Wrethan's hearts grew heavy at that, his melancholy welling up within him. He had been distracted for some time, frantically trying to hold the Penitent Company together and fire their spirits. He had taken no time to consider his own temperament but now he had a moment alone he found himself despondent. Wrethan had not seen the shimmering oceans of his homeworld for a decade and he found himself missing the clean waters and a stiff sea-breeze. He yearned to stand among his Chapter once more and feel the blessed rite of the Emperor's Storm wash over them. He knew he was not alone in that, so many among the Penitents were losing hope, the certainty that they would perish on their quest growing with every death.

Wrethan felt his anguish spike as he recalled Tygra, so fiery and indomitable and always ready to argue. They had clashed so many times over their quest but Wrethan had been certain that the Captain could yet be saved. Wrethan had thought to lead his brother to redemption, no matter how he fought it, but in the end Tygra had been right, he had died before earning his atonement. What did that mean for the rest of them, Wrethan pondered, could they redeem themselves for their crimes?

Was it even possible?

Wrethan thought back over his life and recalled all the things he had done wrong, the kinblood he had shed and the false creeds he had preached. The blood of his kin was on his hands, it would never wash away. He sought to atone but in his hearts he wondered if such a thing was possible, could anything be enough to exonerate him for his crimes. Why, even before the civil war he had followed a misguided path, drawn to the idea of the Emperor's Divinity and ignoring the tainted ambitions it masked. High Chaplain Samect had recruited him directly into the Chaplaincy and he could remember it like it was yesterday…

...

_The Hall of Tempests fell silent and dark behind him, the arcane machinery of its operation returning to dormancy. Mighty had been the storm unleashed in that sacred place, breaking all but the most stout-hearted of souls as they sought to climb the tiers within and claim a Crozius Arcanum from the highest position. Wrethan strode confidently from his trial with his head held high, he had passed the final test and proved worthy of the rank of Chaplain. His naked body was scorched and bruised from the battering he had been through, but his step was sure and in his hands was doughty Crozius, the symbol of his new office._

_With frigid water dripping from his frame Wrethan stepped from the Hall of Tempests, only to be confronted by a Space Marine in glossy black armour. Wrethan lowered himself to one knee before his master and said, "High Chaplain Samect, I entered as a boy but I leave a man."_

_Samect's stern face showed no trace of approval or scorn as he uttered, "Rise Wrethan and be counted among the Chaplains."_

_Wrethan stood up and presented his new Crozius proudly saying, "Redeeming-flame, it called to me through the tempest, leading my hand to it."_

_Samect's eyes fell upon the golden mace and he commented, "A relic of the third tier, it matches my own achievement."_

_Wrethan's cheek let slip a twitch as he muttered, "I had hoped to reach the fifth tier."_

_Samect snorted in amusement, "Don't we all, but to reach the third tier is no mean feat, few indeed reach the fourth tier. Besides, no soul, since the First High Chaplain and Visionary of the Chapter, Charael, has lived to reach the fifth tier. His mighty Crozius, Storm-Heart, waits for a purer soul than us to claim it."_

_Wrethan lowered his eyes in humility and said, "I only endured thanks to your teachings Master."_

_Samect face was flinty as he lectured, "Remember your lessons well. It is our role to vouchsafe the morale and moral conduct of our brethren, to lead them to the faith of the True Believers."_

_Wrethan nodded as he stated, "That should be no great challenge."_

_But Samect sounded judgemental as he said, "Do not be glib; the task before us is monumental. Our Chapter has yet to fully embrace belief in the divinity of Him on Terra, some still hold to the old ways of the Codex."_

_Wrethan wasn't concerned as he said, "Surely they are only a few malcontents, they will be brought into line in due time."_

_Samect's eyes narrowed as he growled, "Would that it was so, but the non-believers are organising and uniting against us. A power bloc is forming to oppose our efforts in spreading the faith, spearheaded by our new Chapter Master: Gorgall."_

_Wrethan blinked in shock and said, "The new Chapter Master opposes us?"_

_Samect grimaced as he spat angrily, "By rights First Captain Athead should have claimed the office after Chapter Master Turgo passed, he understands the truth, but that damned fool Captain Maxitio challenged him and swayed many Captains with his haughty talk of honour. In the end Gorgall was the only acceptable alternative, a compromise candidate both sides could stomach. I thought him moderate and weak-willed, easily led, but he has stubbornly refused to join the True Believers."_

_Wrethan was shocked to hear that, being a novice he had not been involved with the politics surrounding the election of a new Chapter Master. He drew in a breath and said, "Then we must force his hand."_

_Samect smiled coldly and agreed, "You grasp the truth, yes we must sway the Chapter to the side of the righteous. Only united can we take our rightful place as the leaders of humanity, steering mankind to the glorious future the Divine Emperor always intended. The High Lords have failed Him on Terra, they turned the Imperium into a creaking sham of its intended majesty, but the day will come when we eclipse those clerks and fops and set the galaxy to order."_

_Wrethan concurred, "The High Lords are decrepit fossils. The Divine Emperor deserves better, Mankind deserves better. Our Brothers will see that in time."_

_Samect looked upon him sternly and proclaimed, "Do not hesitate in your mission, show no mercy or kindness to any who falter. You must be unswerving in your devotion and unfaltering in your commitment. A moment of weakness could undo everything we seek to accomplish. For the Chapter to rise to our rightful station, as the leaders of humanity, we must first purge any hint of doubt or indecision from our ranks. Only when every single Storm Herald embraces the divinity of the Emperor can we ascend to glory."_

_Wrethan bowed deeply and said, "I will not fail you, High Chaplain, this I swear."_

_..._

Wrethan snapped out his memory with a snarl of bitter self-recrimination. He felt overwhelming shame that he had listened to Samect's words that day, that he had chosen to follow the power-hungry zealot so blindly. More than anything Wrethan wished he could speak to the young fool he had been, he wanted to say that he had been wrong about Samect and about everything else. Had Wrethan the chance, he would tell his younger self to take Redeeming-flame and bury it in Samect's skull, to end his lust for power with one blow and unwrite a shameful future.

Wrethan's anger burned in his hearts but he did not give vent to his anguish, there was no point wasting his strength in petty displays of rage. Instead he lowered his head and closed his eyes as he directed his thoughts towards the Emperor. Alone with his guilt, Wrethan sought guidance from his Lord and Master, asking to be shown the path to forgiveness no matter what the cost may be.


	31. Chapter 31

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 31**

In a quiet corner of the Chantry-barracks a meeting was taking place. Three souls gathering in a secluded corner, alone in the dim light that filled the passageways. They had come together to discuss their shared secret and what they were going to do about it. The first of the trio was Justini wearing in a coarse robe that didn't quite hide her bruises. She was tired and weary from a long day of prayer and training, but she would have no chance to rest.

Justini looked at the pair she was meeting, Selosha and Gared, the lovers whose secret she had kept and said, "I'm not sure about this."

Selosha leaned in, her annoyingly perfect hair falling around her face as she hissed, "But you promised."

Justini really wanted to scratch that gorgeous face but instead she said, "I agreed to keep quiet about you two, not cheat and steal for you."

Gared looked worried as he said, "But we're stuck, I have access to a shuttle and can fly us to a ship in orbit but I can't get us the authorisation to launch. Only a senior commander of the Ecclesiarchy can authorise an unscheduled shuttle flight, without proper clearance we will be blown out of the sky."

Selosha continued, "You have to get Phantea's authority codes from her quarters. Steal that and we can leave tonight."

Justini scowled as she spat, "Why don't you do it?"

Selosha snorted derisively, "How would that look? If they see me sneaking around then they will know something is up. We will never have another chance to escape."

"And what if I get caught instead of you?" Justini hissed, "Even if everything goes smoothly I'll still be here after you're gone and they will soon know you have deserted. If they find out I played a part in your escape then I will be the one punished, or do you not care about my fate?"

Selosha brushed that off saying, "You'll make something up, you're good at that."

Justini was incensed by that and snapped, "I won't do it! Keeping a secret is one thing, but you are asking me to steal from the Order and falsify records, this is wrong!"

Selosha's eyes hardened as she growled, "You'll do it or they will catch us all. You're a part of this too; I will make sure they know that. If I go down then I will take you with me."

Justini gulped in fear for she knew it was no idle threat. She had lied to Canoness Phantea's face, keeping secrets and aiding a Sister in breaking her vows. The punishment for such things was severe, she would be lucky to merely be sent to the Sister's Repentia. She glanced between the pair of lovers but found no sympathy there, she was in too deep and they knew it. She had no choice left, save to carry on and hope to get away with it.

Justini's defiance wilted and she whispered, "I'll do it."

"Good," Selosha said with a happy grin, "I knew you wouldn't let us down."

Gared handed her a data-crystal and said, "I bribed a backstreet lay tech-adept for this, merely slot it into Phantea's personal logic-engine and the data djinn contained within will do the rest. Once you've got it back to us we can leave immediately."

Justini took the crystal reluctantly as Selosha said briskly, "Don't hang about, the longer you wait the more chance there is you will be caught."

Filled with resentment Justini walked away from them, longing more than ever that she had never agreed to help the lovers. She walked slowly along the cold corridors, for her heart was torn in two. What they had asked her to do was shameful, but she had promised them she would do it. She had already kept secrets and lied to her superiors, whether she persisted or not made no difference. She has sinned and would surely be cast down along with the other two, for she was as guilty as they. She tried to tell herself that once this was done all the lying and the secrets would at last be over, but she couldn't make the thoughts form, they skittered away from her and were replaced by a whisper that she was about to cross a line there would be no coming back from. Yet she could see no other way forward, her feet were set upon this path.

Justini started in surprise when she found herself stepping into a small and disused chapel, far from the centre of the Chantry-barracks. She had been so distracted that she had paid no attention to her surroundings, wandering aimlessly rather than head to her supposed destination. Her feet had brought her here without conscious thought and before she knew what she was doing she stepped within and practically ran to the altar. She sank down before it, bowing before the image of the God-Emperor and from her lips words spilled unbidden, "Oh Master of Mankind, I am lost and alone in the dark. I try to do your will but I don't know how, please tell me what to do."

Justini didn't know what she had expected to happen, some flash of divine inspiration, a choir of cherubim to appear and deliver her message from on high or some other impossible event. Of course no such thing happened, there was only a low, growling hum in the background but no heavenly revelations presented themselves. Justini's head sank low and she sighed, it must have been a moment of madness that led her here, she was making a fool of herself and was wasting time. Sheepishly Justini stood up and brushed off her robe, then she turned to depart. It was then that she realised that she was not alone in the chapel.

Justini's eyes widened and her jaw fell as she beheld an armoured giant sitting quietly in the chapel, the eyes of his skull-helm watching her every move. He was immense, as tall as she was even when sitting down and his awesome bulk filled the pew he occupied, his broad pauldrons almost as wide as she was tall. His armour growled softly, the source of the hum she had detected earlier, and he bore many purity seals. Justini started in recognition, for she had seen this one before. He was the one who had bested the Psyren, the one they had escorted back to the Hive city. He was Wrethan, the Astartes' Chaplain.

Justini's jaw worked silently and then she stammered, "Forgive… forgive me, I did not mean to intrude."

Wrethan stared at her intently, making her guts churn in anxiety, then a deep threatening voice issued forth, "You seem troubled."

Justini shook her head and eyed the door as she protested, "It is nothing."

Wrethan's stare did not waver as he uttered, "It must be something dire to make you act so. You should sit and tell me about it."

"Really," Justini stammered edging towards the door, "I should go."

But Wrethan growled fiercely, "Sit."

Without her volition Justini's knees buckled and her rear hit a pew. She gulped nervously as the mighty Space Marine glared at her and she thought he must be able to see her sin writ large upon her soul. Then he did a most curious thing, his hands lifted to his helm and smoothly undid the clasps, before pulling it free. The face beneath was strange, wider and broader than any she had ever known, scarred and broken in many places as a testament to a lifetime of war. Yet there was a sadness to his eye, a sense that he had seen and done too much for one heart to bear, but underneath that was a will of steel. Here was one who had seen the horrors of the galaxy first-hand and yet was not broken by it.

Wrethan set down his helm then looked at her and said, "Tell me your name and what ails you."

"Sister Justini," she replied timidly, "You wouldn't understand, I am no holy Astartes. I am flawed and weak; I am not perfect like you."

Quietly Wrethan stated, "You know do not know much of the Astartes, so it may surprise you to learn that we are far from perfect. We too struggle with our fallible natures and can fall to sin."

Justini started, "But you are the work of His hand, the right course must be obvious to you. Does the God-Emperor not speak unto you?"

"Were that it was so," Wrethan replied sadly, "We follow His example but we can be led astray. Arrogance, pride, vanity and greed, these can overtake any soul, even ours. We are not immune to making mistakes… believe me."

Justini was stunned by that and before she knew it she was blurting out, "But surely a sacred duty leads your every step."

"One's true duty is not always clear," Wrethan breathed forlornly.

Justini heard the pain in his voice and uttered, "I am… I am caught between two duties, my vows to my order and my loyalty to my squadmates. I don't know which is the greater, which one is the right choice to make. I am torn in two, unable to choose between them."

Wrethan nodded slowly and said, "That I understand, for I have stood at a similar junction. I was torn between two paths, what I was told was righteous and what my hearts knew to be just."

"How did you resolve your dilemma?" Justini pleaded to know.

"Badly," Wrethan answered quietly.

Justini lowered her voice and whispered, "It started out so small; a lie of omission, but it grew until it became wicked. I don't want to press on but it's too late, I am caught in a vice and there is no way back. There is no choice left for me, not anymore."

Wrethan voice became a dangerous growl as he uttered, "Saying there is no choice is what we tell ourselves when we know that we are doing wrong. A tiny voice screams at us to stop but we ignore it, we close our eyes and cover our ears. Our victims are weak, we tell ourselves, they deserve it, we say. Thus we embrace the darkness, until we forget what the light looks like."

Justini could hardly believe a Space Marine would say such a thing but she recognised his words were as much as for himself as for her. Whatever had happened to him, his anguish was terrible to behold and she recognised he too was grappling with his conscience. Amazing, she had always assumed Astartes were beyond such concerns. She gulped down her trepidation and uttered, "Then there is no hope."

"No!" Wrethan barked, "Redemption is possible, it has to be!"

Justini was set back by his outburst and stammered, "But.. but the cost…"

Wrethan nodded his head to the altar and said, "What is our pain compared to the Emperors? He sacrificed himself for the sake of all mankind, bearing the cost because He knew it was right and just. How can we do anything less? How can we think of our own welfare when the fate of all humanity hangs in the balance? You and I are gifted with the power to make a difference and we are honour-bound to do so, not for ourselves but for the sake of every man woman and child in the galaxy."

"But what if it's already too late?" Justini started, "What if there's no point even trying?"

"Everything has a purpose, the Emperor ordains it so," Wrethan replied sternly, "Ten thousand years of torment has the Emperor endured, held one inch from death, yet still He fights on. He has never given up the struggle; he has never yielded to the darkness. He fights for humanity, as humanity fights for Him. Thus He teaches us the most important lesson of all: it is never too late to make the right choice."

Suddenly Wrethan stood up and declared, "Everything that has happened has led us to this time and place. He willed that we be here and so it must have been for a purpose. I must go, I trust this has helped you, it has certainly helped me."

Justini leapt to her feet and blurted, "Where are you going?"

"To do something right," Wrethan declared as he donned his helm and strode out.

With that he was gone, leaving Justini alone in the chapel. She stared at the open doorway and thought over the words that had passed between them, debating what it meant for her. She saw the wisdom of his words and weighed it against her own conscience. Had he been right, she asked herself, was she putting her own welfare above her duty to the God-Emperor and all mankind? Her eyes drifted to the altar and she saw the image of the Emperor as a skeletal husk, an eternal and never-ending self-sacrifice, made for all of humanity. With a flash of insight, she saw that her own pain was infinitesimal compared to His, the consequences of her doing the right thing as a mote of dust when set against His suffering.

Justini's heart hardened as she realised what she had to do, no matter the cost to herself. She clenched her jaw in determination then walked out the door, heading towards Canoness Phantea's quarters. She walked fast for she knew she had to go right now, before her conviction faded. Determined to set things right she made her way to her superior's abode, to reveal Selosha's perfidy and confess her own part in it and to accept whatever punishment was coming.


	32. Chapter 32

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 32**

Justini sat alone in a small, dark cell trying not to shiver from cold. She had been here for many hours and did not know how much longer she would remain. The door was open but she had no intention to leave, there was no point since she had nowhere to go. As the hours ground past Justini relived the moment when she had marched into Canoness Phantea's room and confessed everything. She had spoken of Selosha's acts, of her own discovery and how she had helped to conceal the truth. She had confessed her lie and handed over the illicit data-crystal without being prompted. Phantea's reaction had been curious, she had not yelled or screamed, she had not even offered threats. Instead the Canoness had asked her series of questions, cold and impersonal, which Justini had answered as best she could. Then a pair of elite Celestians had been summoned to escort Justini to a cell and left her there to contemplate her fate.

Justini didn't know what she had expected to feel after confessing, some sense of relief or a lightening of her burden perhaps, but it hadn't come to pass. Her worry was now focused only upon her own fate and on what was going to happen to her. She did not doubt a dire punishment awaited her; the only question was how severe it would be. Without thinking Justini's hand went to the ring about her neck and she toyed with the icon left to her by her mother. Whoever she was, whatever fate had claimed her, surely her spirit must know what Justini had done and she could only tell herself that her mother would have approved of her choice. It was scant comfort but it was all she had.

After an endless wait a figure appeared at the door, one of the armoured Celestian who waved Justini to her feet with a bolter. Justini swallowed nervously but followed the Sister out as she marched away. There was no talking between them but Justini quickly realised that she was being led back to Phantea's quarters and she steeled herself for her judgement, determined to look brave even if she didn't feel it. Their journey was swift and Justini was waved straight in to find Canoness Phantea and Sister Superior Karna waiting for her. Phantea was sitting primly behind her desk, which was covered in parchments, along with her logic-engine and her antique quill. Karna remained standing, her face like thunder as she scowled at Justini. Phantea didn't waste any time to say, "Be seated."

Justini obeyed, nervously fretting as she fought to keep a knot of anxiety down. Phantea eyed her sternly and spoke, "Well child, this is certainly a pot of nettles you've uncovered. I am shocked by this disgrace, thank the throne we got to them before it could go any further."  
Justini swallowed nervously and asked, "You caught the others?"

Phantea grimaced as she spat, "Sister Selosha and this Gared were caught loitering around the vehicle bays, trying to scrounge transport. They denied any wrongdoing at first but when we took them to be interrogated they confessed everything."  
Karna muttered sullenly, "We barely had time to apply the pain-goads before they started babbling."  
Justini lowered her eyes and said, "Then at least the lying and secrecy is over."

Phantea pursed her lips as she said, "This is a most thorny issue, to have a Sister planning to abscond from the Order, trying to lie and deceive us deplorable. Yet they tell us different stories, each one peddling a tale to elicit our pity."

Karna elaborated, "Gared insists that they planned this together, that they fell in love and sought to elope. Selosha however insists she was duped into this, that he forced his body upon her and then threatened to reveal her shame, unless she agreed to do his bidding."

Justini started in surprise and spluttered, "She says what?!"  
Both of them looked at her and Phantea probed, "You have more to add?"

Justini blinked at her own outburst but it was too late to turn back and stated, "I saw them together and there was no hint of coercion. If anything Selosha was the instigator of these events, the plan was hers all along."

Phantea snorted, "I thought as much, a mere pilot forcing himself on a trained Sister of Battle is preposterous. She could have beaten him to a pulp, even without her power armour."

Justini sighed sadly, "To think, all this began with an act of love."  
Phantea shook her head and said, "Had that been everything an allowance could have been made, if she had been honest with us and told us the situation. It wouldn't be the first time the Order has had to deal with a Sister who strayed from her vows."

Justini wasn't sure she had heard right and spluttered, "Wait… this has happened before?!"  
Karna nodded and said, "We hold ourselves to the God-Emperor's service… but human error happens. Sometimes a Sister cannot keep her to her vows and falls from grace, it is not something we condone but we know this is better dealt with quietly than to make a scandal."  
Justini gasped in surprise and spluttered, "But… but… but our vows. Surely such a sin warrants castigation or exile."

Phantea snorted in derision, "If we exiled every Sister who had a wandering eye there wouldn't be enough of us left to garrison a rustic chapel. We have ways of dealing with such mistakes, flagellation, excruciation and the Sisters Repentia, all can restore one to the Order's bosom. When such affairs produce offspring we offer the sinner a choice: transfer to the Orders Hospitalier or Dialogus, where families are permitted. But the alternative is to give up the child and sever all contact; no Sister of the Orders Militant can be allowed to be distracted by children."

Justini was stunned to hear such things and asked, "Then Selosha will be allowed to repent and seek forgiveness?"  
Phantea's face hardened and she growled, "Were that the only sin we might consider it, but as for the rest. Lying, desertion, manipulating others and breaking faith with our Order, this is beyond forgiving. Selosha has betrayed us, I suspect she deliberately singled this man out and seduced him, probably for his piloting skills. The poor dupe thought she loved him, but I suspect as soon as they reached orbit Selosha would have disappeared and left him to hang. This warrants the sternest punishment."

Justini heart quailed dared to ask, "Am… am I to share her fate?"  
Phantea blinked at that and said, "You? Well that is the question, isn't it? For your lie you deserve chastisement, but I do not believe you the mastermind behind it all. I consider you another dupe in this, one who was manipulated by Selosha. I think contrition rites and atonement vigils may be more appropriate in your case. A few turns on the excruciation rack, followed by long nights lying naked on the cold flagstones of the vestry will give you time to repent."

Justini was startled by that answer, compared to what she had been imagining would happen to her it was the lightest slap on the wrist, barely worth mentioning. Her jaw dropped and she said, "I… I don't understand."  
Karna sounded equally baffled as she added, "Neither do I… the Order's prescriptions are clear on this matter."

Phantea however disagreed, "Justini, you came confessed of your own free will, that is a sign that you want to be redeemed. The Repentia are unlikely to survive the coming battle, I do not think such a fate is merited in this case. But had you continued to lie, had I found you trying to deceive us, then you would have been on the front line, sent into battle half-naked."  
Karna sounded incredulous as she spat, "You… you can't let her off so lightly."

Justini was irked that her squad leader wanted her to suffer but held her tongue. Phantea however snapped, "I happen to be the Canoness around these parts! I have made my judgement and it will be carried out. Justini, depart from this palace and report to the Sister-flagellators, I want your penance completed before we launch our next attack."

Shocked and bemused Justini stood and bowed to the Canoness, then turned to leave. She did not understand what had just happened but she wasn't about to argue the point. Stunned and bewildered she left the chamber, her hand clutched to the ring around her neck as if it were a divine talisman that had saved her life. The door closed with a soft click as Justini departed, yet had she heard what was said after she left she would have been even more shocked.

Phantea remained sitting behind her desk but glanced at Karna and remarked, "You have something to say?"  
Karna replied slowly, picking her words with care as she said, "I am… surprised at your decision."

Phantea laced her fingers before her and said, "Justini uncovered treason within our own ranks and reported it, as far as I can see the only thing she could have done differently was to tell us immediately."

Karna scowled as she uttered, "I would have sent her to the Repentia, at the bare minimum."  
Phantea didn't so much as blink as she said, "That would be a death sentence, but she confessed of her own free will, that counts for much. I do not want Justini dead; I want her back in the ranks, pure of heart and cleansed of her sin."

Karna wasn't mollified as she said, "Cardinal Pilate would not countenance such indulgence for a sinner."  
Phantea replied firmly, "The Cardinal does not levy penalties among the Sororitas, I do."

Karna muttered, "I still think she deserves sterner punishment than a slap on the wrist."  
Phantea replied coolly, "Then you insist that all infractions receive the maximum punishment?"

"Of course," Karna answered.  
Phantea looked at her shrewdly and remarked, "Strange, I seem to recall a young Sister coming to me to beg for absolution, after that unfortunate incident in the slums of Ophellia VII."  
Karna's face fell and she stammered, "That… that was totally different."

But Phantea retorted, "By rights I should have thrown the book at you, but I saw you had potential, a seed of greatness I chose not to waste. The punishment I bestowed upon you was not torture but disciplining, to set you back on the right path. I believe I have been proven right, you are a fine Sister Superior and may well rise higher in time. I see the same potential in Justini; I would not see her slain before she has had a chance to redeem herself."

Karna didn't sound convinced but relented and said, "May I be excused."  
"Go," said Phantea briskly before returning to her paperwork.

Karna left the room and silence fell. For long minutes there was only the scratching of Phantea's quill as she worked over her parchments. Anyone watching her would have seen a dutiful commander, labouring over her work. Yet the scratching of her quill was fast and furious, the blots on her work growing more numerous. Phantea's jaw tightened as her handwriting became sloppier and sloppier, until she couldn't read back what she had written. Phantea snarled as she pressed too hard and the nib broke, blotting ink all over the page.

Phantea slammed the quill down with a frustrated cry and threw herself back in her seat, staring at the wall opposite from her. She gritted her teeth until they creaked and grimaced foully. Slowly her hand drifted to her neckline and pulled out a chain, bearing a small key. She pulled it over her head and held it up before her eyes, as if weighing a decision, then before she could change her mind she fitted it into a drawer in her desk and undid the lock.

Within the drawer was a small pile of printed pict-images, impressed onto imperishable plastek. Phantea collected them with one hand and held them up, examining the images displayed with a face like stone. Each one of them was an image of a young Battle Sister, taken from a high angle that suggested a cyber-skull imager. Strangely they were not pictures of Phantea but of Justini. There were images of her joining her squad and receiving her blessed bolter and there were images of her taking her holy orders and standing proudly in her novice fatigues. There were images of a pre-pubescent Justini arriving at the Sororitas' convent and even earlier ones of her playing in the scholam as a child. Then there was one last image, one of her as a squalling baby, with a silver ring hanging around her neck on a chain. She was being held in the arms of a woman, whose face was outside the frame of the picter.

Phantea paused at this image for a long time and her fingertip traced the outline of the baby's jaw, ending on the silver ring and sitting there. Phantea stared mournfully at the image in her hand, bedevilled by a secret only she knew. Distant thoughts passed through her mind, but she spoke them not, she could never speak such things aloud. She could only sit and stare, as unknowable thoughts passed like the wind. After an age Phantea threw the images back into the drawer and slammed it shut with an angry bang. Then she put her head down over her pile of parchments and got back to work.


	33. Chapter 33

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 33**

The assault had begun at last; the mighty spire of Tethys Hive was wracked by the fires of battle as the massed armies of the Fraters surged up the arterial routes. They marched in a ragged wave of dishevelled attire and filthy flesh, clutching their lasguns as they streamed higher and higher. At their head Missionaries led the masses forward, chanting prayers and exhortations over the heads of the faithful. Behind the first wave of zealots came heavier support, tanks, Holy Martyrs and the Sisters of Battle. In a flood of faith and fury they advanced, rolling over any resistance that dared to stand before them.

The main thrust of the Imperial attack was climbing up the north face of the spire, trying to punch through the heart of the Heretic's defences. It was an impressive and powerful thrust but notably missing one element, the Space Marines were not present. Partly because Cardinal Pontius Pilate had turned them away and but mostly because they had their own plans. Far to the west the Storm Heralds were making their own advance, pushing up the Spire from another direction. Their progress was far swifter and more precise, clearing out the entrenched Disciples with stunning speed. They made swift work of the battle, following their Codex's prescriptions with the skill born of centuries of practice.

Amid the bedlam of battle Chaplain Wrethan strode with his head held high, Redeeming-flame glowing in his hands. All around him squads of Storm Heralds were engaging dug-in heavy weapon positions, crewed by drug-addled Heretics in their heavy collars. The crossfires were well designed, laying down intense webs of firepower but they were largely static and easily outmanoeuvred by the more skilled Astartes. Here an autocannon emplacement was blown to bits by a Devastator squad, there a Heavy Bolter position was distracted by a Tactical squad so two of its members could close and lob frag grenades within its barricade. A Lascannon team tried to find a target, but before they could fire an Assault squad fell from on high and took them from behind, chainswords rising and falling in sprays of gore as they decimated the Heretics mercilessly.

Wrethan was satisfied that the Penitent Company would secure this area swiftly and turned his attention to the environment. They had risen to the upper slopes of the Hive, well above the lower tiers where the poorer artisan classes were permitted to dwell. They had launched their attack from the wide plaza of Victory square and pushed into the noble's private estates, the various districts where, in better times, they had built their mansions and played out their intrigues. All around Wrethan were various fine houses, they were not the largest or most lavish palaces but each one was competing to be the most ostentatious and gaudy. Nobles did so love their displays of wealth and for this rarefied aristocracy that had taken the form of decorated bronze panelling over their facades and so many statues that it was hard to see where the actual stonework of the buildings began.

High above all was a great armourglass dome, sticking out of the upper spire like a blister. It was but one of scores set over the western slopes, each one containing a district of the rich and powerful. Once it must have displayed a magnificent view of the western Spire, sloping down past the Arbites' fortress to the slums of the outer city and the turgid waters of the ocean beyond. Now it was stained and sooty, a murky barrier holding back the thin atmosphere of this altitude. That did not concern Wrethan though, his power armour was proof against such impediments and his physiology would have been untroubled even without it.

He turned his attention to the battle and saw that it was winding down, the last knots of resistance being crushed underfoot. Here and there a weeping Frater, dregs left to tie up the Disciples of Ruin, looked up in shock as the noise faded, amazed as the mighty Space Marines strode past. In Wrethan's opinion this had been a mere skirmish, there had been no massed counter-charges, no arcane weapons deployed and most tellingly, no Flesh-Golems to be seen. It seemed that the true might of the Heretics was focused elsewhere, which was exactly as it should be.

Wrethan briskly marched towards a marble building, now stained by fire and with its windows broken. A few bodies hung out of the black holes, fresh corpses of Heretics or the skeletons of the former owners, who had been slaughtered when the Hive first fell. Knots of Fraters sat about in dazed stupor, unable to grasp that they had survived the battle, small as it was by Wrethan's standards. The Chaplain adroitly avoided them, skirting their ranks as he sought out his destination.

Finally he saw his goal, the noble form of Captain Erathor, who was standing proudly before the dwelling with his head held high. His lightning claws were speckled with Heretic blood and his augmetic legs were stained with soot yet he still looked proud in his glorious armour. He was in conversation with Apothecary Santes, whose white armour was far grimier by comparison. Santes was speaking as the Chaplain approached, "Nothing more than minor wounds and lacerations. Brother Corvano took an Autocannon round to the chest but his armour held. I told him he needs to rest for two hours, so naturally he will be and about in a third of that time, congratulating himself on proving me wrong."

"Excellent," Erathor stated, "We have secured this district and will hold here."

Wrethan joined the pair and inquired, "We do not advance?"

Erathor shook his head and said, "We have reached an optimal position to launch our strike but we must not move too hastily. The whole point of this mission is to let the Fraters draw off the Heretic's forces; their clumsy attack will require the enemy to deploy the bulk of their army."

Wrethan already knew this, they had worked out the plan together after all but Erathor was a Captain and strategy was his domain. The Chaplain replied levelly, "I understand but I am eager to see the end of this war. The final push is upon us and it does not sit well with the Marines to be idle when the foe is before us."

Santes snorted, "Better that than lose everything with a premature strike."

"Indeed," Erathor concurred, "We shall use this time to call up servitors with reloads; we have expended much ammunition to reach this point and I want us fully stocked when we launch our attack on the shield pylons."

Wrethan's eyes rose up to the armourglass roof and looked beyond, seeing the forest of minarets and glowing domes that crested the summit of the spire. Aside from the Governor's Palace and the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor those pylons took up the bulk of the summit, their lightning wreathed spires like a crown of thorns set atop the Spire. Strange distortions and waves of energy wafted off the pylons, creating the impenetrable void shield that cut off Tethys from the skies above.

Santes intruded into his thoughts as he said, "Are we certain the Disciples of Ruin don't know what we are planning?"

Erathor answered, "If they did we would be inundated with Flesh-Golems, they would do anything to stop us reaching those pylons. No, the Frater's assault must be working; they push up the arterial routes from the Shrine of Saint Torvald, in an unmissable wave. Vox reports show they have reached the Commercia and make good progress, soon they will reach the Aqua gardens."

Santes shook his head and said, "That's a bad place for a fight, open ground and no cover, the Ecclesiarchy will spend an ocean of blood for every inch they advance."

Wrethan lowered his eyes and sighed at that, "A tragic sacrifice but a necessary one, we cannot aid those lost souls but we can fight for those who have yet to engage. Once we launch our strike this war will end and millions of innocent lives shall be spared the carnage that would have otherwise come."

Erthaor nodded, "A sound plan, in keeping with the Codex, take out the void shield and the Imperium's orbital supremacy will at last be put into effect. No more slogging through the tangled ruins of the hive, they can drop troops everywhere, simultaneously. The Heretics will be assailed from all sides and their entrenched defences will become meaningless."

Santes glanced upwards and said, "First we have to break the target open and I am troubled by the prospect of a fight in those conditions. A void-shield generator of that size is a dangerous place to fight. All those charged capacitors and unstable energy vortices, too much destruction and we will blow ourselves half-way to Terra."

Yet Erathor didn't sound concerned as he replied, "We are the Adeptus Astartes, we can handle anything."

Wrethan was thoughtful as he said, "The part that concerns me is the Traitor Marine, where is he in all this?"

Santes shook his head saying, "Probably cowering in some corner."

Wrethan disagreed, "Traitors are foul curs but they are not cowards, he will be out there somewhere, waiting for us."

Erathor remarked, "You sound particularly irate over this."

Wrethan gripped his Crozius tighter and growled, "Such filth defies the Emperor, his continued existence is an affront to Him on Terra."

Santes sounded dismissive as he said, "One Traitor we can handle. We will end this soon and then be off to the next war and the next. On and on until we fulfil our sentence or die unmourned."

Wrethan fixed him with a glare and said, "Is that what you think: that our Death Oath is some random punishment, handed out like a mundane prison sentence? No, the Emperor has led us here for a reason and we must have faith that it will lead us to our redemption."

Santes snorted, "You still believe that?"

"Always," Wrethan affirmed, "Redemption is waiting for those who repent. It is never too late to do something right."

Erathor sighed loudly and said, "Not this again, I had enough arguing when Tygra was with us. Let it be for once."

But Wrethan would not relent as he said, "No, I am trying to tell you something important. Examine the people and see how they look at us."

The pair seemed dubious but turned and gazed about. While they had been talking more Fraters had gathered nearby and they looked upon the Space Marines with expressions of awe and faith. Each face shining with wonder as they stared at the Transhuman giants. In their eyes was the reflection of hope, the purest unadulterated expectation of victory and trust in the protection of the Emperor.

Santes sounded uncomfortable as he said, "Why… why are they looking at us like that?"

Wrethan explained, "Because they see us as we should be, the heroes and champions of humanity. They do not see our shame and disgrace, they behold only what we were meant to be. In their eyes we are nobler, better and purer than we know ourselves to be. We were made to fight for souls like them; it is the reason the Emperor made us. We forgot that truth and it was the source of our shame and exile. Yet look at yourself reflected in their eyes and understand that they still believe in us, see yourself as they do and know that redemption is still possible."

The pair stared at the mortals, trying to see what Wrethan was saying as the crowd stared back at them. Then from the back of the Fraters a lone voice rose up, one single man among many who cried, "The Emperor's Angels are here to save us!" The cry sent a ripple through the crowds and then the people started to cheer, crying aloud in celebration. The cheers carried over the district, filling the streets with the joyful cries of those who had no hope being shown salvation. Young and old, men and women, the humble folk gave voice to their relief and the noise stirred Wrethan's hearts.

The Chaplain turned to his Brothers and said, "Understand this, our redemption was never about fulfilling some arbitrary order or enduring some random sentence. We were sent forth to remind ourselves of who we truly are and who we should be. That is why I say it is never too late, whether we succeed this day is not the issue, if we last a hundred years or die tomorrow does not matter. We fight for humanity, that is the role of the Space Marines and it is never too late for us to be who we were meant to be."

Erathor hesitantly replied, "I… I understand."

Even Santes whispered, "I have lived with my shame for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to look upon myself with pride."

As the crowd cheered Wrethan declared, "Then we know what we have to do, come Brothers our redemption is out there, all that remains now is to claim it."


	34. Chapter 34

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 34**

Her body ached all over, muscles and skin protesting at every movement she made. It wasn't helped by the constant rubbing of her power amour, dragging against her sensitive skin and over the marks left by pain-goads and the welts of the lash. Justini felt twice her age as she marched to battle, but she gritted her teeth and endured it, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Around her the army of the Ecclesiarchy rolled on, barrelling over any resistance it encountered. Waves of Fraters swarmed over the Heretic's defensive positions and heavy tanks blew away any gun-nest that fought them off. The Sisters of Battle marched alongside them, their Rhino transports blaring hymnals from loudhailers fixed to the sides. The offensive was going well, grinding up the arterial routes and climbing level after level with swift haste. The Heretic's defences had been meagre so far, merely prepared gun positions, unsupported by Flesh-Golems, and the Fraters had reached the level of the Commercia without difficulty.

Justini was glad of it, this was the furthest the Imperial faithful had managed to climb since the war began and it was glorious to be part of it after her punishment. Justini had spent days strapped to an excruciation rack, enduring the cleansing touch of blessed pain, followed by long nights shivering on the freezing flagstones of the chapel as her welts throbbed. It had been a brutal purgation of her sin, but still it was a soft punishment compared to others.

Her eyes drifted ahead, to where Canoness Phantea and Confessor E'zard were leading the faithful forward. They passed through the market squares, where exotic goods had once been traded and past the fine guild-halls where merchant-cartels had forged contracts that spanned the sector, without pause. They gave no notice to the faded finery nor the piles of dead that lay strewn everywhere, for their objective called to them. Behind them came a wedge of Sisters in red rags and leather straps, the Sisters Repentia whose contrition brands were still puffy and sore. Justini tried to see if Selosha was among their number, but their faces were obscured and they moved without formation, making counting them hard.

As if summoned by the thought she heard Praxi beside her saying, "I still can't believe Selosha threw the Order aside like that."

"Believe it," Justini muttered, "She betrayed us all, she was going to run off and leave us all to die."

Resita was marching to the rear, her bolter held firmly as she declared, "Selosha never dedicated her true heart to the God-Emperor. Her faith was lacking and so she strayed into sin."

Desity added, "She was always a vain one, too obsessed with her looks for her own good. I always thought they should have branded her face in the convent, to burn the conceit out of her."

Resita spat, "Yes, she always looked down her nose at us, she deserves worse punishment than the Repentia, I hope her penance is long and arduous."

Praxi then uttered, "Good job you reported her Justini, else who knows how far she would have got."

Justini didn't answer that, eyeing Karna's silent back. She and The Sister Superior had exchanged terse words upon her return to the squad and some rancour still lingered between them. Justini knew that Karna thought she should have been sent to the Repentia, but neither of them could argue with the Canoness' decision, strange as it was. Justini had no idea why Phantea had spared her the full sentence but that wasn't the strangest thing she had done. For some reason Phantea had seen fit to come and observe Justini's excruciation, not intervening, but merely observing from afar as the Sister cried out under the touch of the pain-goads. Phantea was watching her, Justini was sure of it, but the reason why eluded her.

Justini realised her mind was wandering again and she dragged her attention back to hear Praxi saying, "Where are all the Heretics? This resistance is pathetic."

Resita sounded buoyant as she declared, "They see the vengeance of the God-Emperor coming for them and they flee before us!"

Yet Desity muttered, "Don't count on it, this is going too well. In my experience when everything is going to plan it usually means you're walking into a trap."

Suddenly there was a commotion ahead, as Phantea called a halt. The army ground to a ragged stop, the ranks of Fraters jostling as the word was passed back. The Sisters spread out to form a perimeter and Justini found herself standing near enough to the Canoness to hear her saying, "The gate to the Aqua gardens is ahead, we must be careful, the enemy will seek to catch us in a chokepoint."

E'zard didn't sound concerned as he declared, "It makes no difference, they cannot stand before us."

But Phantea disagreed, "We shall probe ahead, squads Karna, Hyella and Verima with us."

Confidently Phantea set off, the various squads sweeping her path for threats. Justini kept her eyes open and her bolter level as they advanced between burnt out ruins, stepping carefully over piles of debris. Soon they approached the vast ferrocrete wall that ringed the Commercia, seeing a yawning gate cut into its frontage that was twenty metres high. It was embellished with images of men ringed by haloes, that were holding aloft swords and spears aloft. They could have been taken for saints but Justini knew better, these were representations of former ruling nobles of Tethys, vainglorious reminders of past glory to affirm their lordship over the lower social ranks. Beyond those gates lay the famous Aqua gardens, one of the many wonders of Tethys, but that did not draw Justini's attention because lurking under that arch was the bloated form of a Spyder.

Justini's grip on her bolter tightened at the sight for it was a rancid and corpulent thing, swollen with cancers and mouldy growths. Yet there was nothing decrepit about the plasteel claws it bore, nor the black Lightning gun atop its bulk or the stubber hanging below it. Justini's stomach turned at the awful sight but she swallowed her bile and stared it down, determined not to falter in the face of the enemy. Unfortunately their approach had not gone unnoticed and the Spyder bellowed as it swung its black lightning gun towards them.

"Fall back!" Phantea ordered and Justini retreated as the Spyder's black Lightning gun fired, the arcing energies blowing sprays of rubble off the surrounding buildings. She gripped her bolter tightly and gritted her teeth at the indignity, the Sisters of Battle should not withdraw before the foe but trust in the God-Emperor for his protection, but orders were orders. Swiftly the advance party fell back out of weapon's range and Justini glanced to the side where Confessor E'zard was shouting, "We need to bring up the heavy tanks!"

But Phantea stopped her retreat called out, "No, Cardinal Pilate has something special saved for this very day. Sanguinary-Prelates, bring forth the sinners!"

Justini's brow furrowed in confusion under her helm, she knew the Sanguinary-Prelates watched over the Holy Martyrs but the Canoness did not sound like she was referring to them. Justini did not understand but then she heard a new noise that made her turn to look behind and she gasped at what she saw. From the packed Fraters Sanguinary-Prelates marched forth, their red robes lending them a bloody aura and waddling up the street behind them came three mechanical walkers, each one three times her height and swaying from side to side on backwards jointed legs. They were decorated with polished skulls and bore long strips of parchment inscribed with sacred litanies. From their backs rose fuming smoke stacks and a pair of mechanical arms jutted out from their sides, tipped with spinning buzzsaws and the nozzles of heavy flamers.

They were awe-inspiring machines of war but also horrifying to behold, for strapped to each of their fronts was a bound human being. They were clad in strips of robes and their faces were hidden by red cowls, but otherwise they were unprotected against the weapons of the foe. These souls were permanently fused into the machines with intrusive neural links, stim-injectors and hard-wired pain goads, that made the individuals scream and wail in perpetual agony. Justini had heard of such machines during her training but she had never seen one in the field, let alone three. They were the ultimate form of contrition, the last hope for those deemed beyond forgiveness: the union of flesh, metal and pain known as Penitent Engines.

Phantea stood proudly before the condemned sinners as they ground to a halt and the doomed souls wept loudly as their nervous systems were shredded over and over. The Canoness ignored their distress as she declared proudly, "Hear me, your sins are beyond forgiveness and it has been decreed that only through death shall you be redeemed! You are the instruments of the God-Emperor's will, the sword in His hand and the bullets in His gun. The foe is before you, go forth and destroy His enemies!"

Justini wasn't sure the sinners could understand anything they heard, so addled by torment were they, but they recognised a threat when they saw one and immediately leapt into a charge. For such ungainly machines they moved with stunning speed and agility, covering the ground in great bounds that ate up the distance. The Sister watched them race into the fray, it being held as a Holy duty to witness these sinners in combat. The Spyder also saw them coming and swivelled its Black Lightning canon towards them, before letting loose a blast of destructive energy. The arcing power shot forth but the Penitent Engines moved with startling speed and dodged the worst, leaving a great furrow carved out of the street behind them. Desperately the stubber under its belly spun about and began to chatter, but the angle was poor and the rounds did little more than ping off the sides of the Penitent Engine's blessed metalwork.

In seconds the trio of machines had covered the distance and they fell upon the Spyder with shrieks of righteous ire. The pain-goads and stim-injectors that tormented the pilots forcing them into a state of hyper-activity, such was their fate for the rest of their lives and the only escape from their miserable existence was to be found in death. The pilots roared insanely as buzzsaw blades ripped deeply into the Flesh-Golem's hide, leaving gaping holes that wept black blood freely. Heavy Flamers doused it in blessed promethium, burning away the filthy touch of Chaos, even as the flailing blades hacked and tore and gouged.

The Spyder was beset on all sides, bleeding and burning, but it was far from beaten. Justini watched from afar as one of its great claws lashed out and caught a Pentient Engine by the arm, pinning it in place. The Black Lightning gun came about to target the trapped machine but the pilot was lost in the throes of rage and went utterly berserk. As the gun fired it drove forward, slamming straight into the bulk of the Spyder and coming within the arc of its weapons. The Spyder reeled as its shot missed and the Penitent Engine smashed its buzzsaw blade into the arm holding it, over and over, tearing and gouging the limb apart with frantic blows. Deeper and deeper the cuts went, exposing mechanisms and slicing tendons apart and then with one great blow it severed the limb clean off.

The Spyder roared as it's limb was shorn off, leaving it flailing about in a hopeless attempt to catch its attackers. Yet the Penitent Engines were too fast for it, circling it on all sides as they hacked and burned it to bits. The Spyder quivered under their blows, dying piece by piece until it finally let out one last gasp of denial and collapsed into a pile of festering offal and broken parts.

The Sisters of Battle let out a cheer of victory and ran forward, running as fast as they could to where the Penitent Engines were butchering the carcass of the Spyder, unable or unwilling to understand that it was dead already. Phantea cried, "Stand down, it is done!" And only reluctantly did they relent, the pain-goads built into the pilot's spines sending spikes of agony into their brains. The Penitent Engines fell back, waddling backwards as their pilots screamed and begged to be allowed to fight and die. But they could not disobey the Canoness so they waddled back, shaking like wet mongrels and making the torn rags covering the pilots flop about.

Phantea raised her sword high and cried, "The way is open! Follow me sons and daughters of the Emperor, first the Aqua Gardens, then the Cathedral. For the God-Emperor, on!"

The Fraters cheered as they streamed in her wake, eager to seize victory but Justini ground to a halt, her eyes wide as she stared in shock. Before her one of the Penitent Engines was shacking violently, its pilot wracked by pain and struggling to get the limbs under control. The violence of the machine's movements had dislodged the cowl over the pilot's face, revealing the agonised torment of the sinner fused into the mechanisms. It was a face locked into perpetual woe and endless suffering, displaying the anguish of one who would know only eternal misery, until death claimed them. Justini couldn't imagine such a fate but that was not what stopped her in her tracks, no, what brought her up short was that she recognised this face.

It was Selosha.


	35. Chapter 35

**Redemptio Opus chapter 35**

The air at this altitude was thin and wispy, a weak soup of gases that contained very little oxygen. Sounds travelled strangely in that environment, made tinny and distant by the lack of air. Mortals could not have breathed this air without assistance, they would have suffocated in minutes, laying about gasping as their brains died from lack of oxygen. Wrethan was not troubled though, his plate was made for the total vacuum of space and was unimpeded by such concerns.

Behind him the slopes of Tethys Hive fell away, descending sharply like a bleak cliff face. Were one to peer downwards then they would see the vast bulk of the man-made mountain, made craggy by bulging atmospheric domes and sharpened by the points of spires, defensive turrets and the many temple steeples that penetrated its flanks. Further down was the urban sprawl of the surrounding city, made hazy by distance so it resembled the trails of ants. Further out were the polluted wastes of the planet, all dusty deserts and toxic sea as far as the eye could see. At this altitude one could see the vague smear that suggested another Hive city, but it was Made indistinct and blurry by distance. The view was stunning, stained as it was, but Wrethan spared no attention to the aesthetics, for their objective was at hand.

Before him rose the mighty spires of the shield pylons, immense columns each the width of a hab block and so tall one would have to crane back to see their tips. They rose from the summit of the spire, like a forest of black trees, the space between them filled with dark shadows that clung to their surfaces. The pylons were wrapped in cables, bulky capacitors and electro-conductors, that emitted waves of shimmering distortion, making the air dance before the eyes. From jutting spars streams of energy jumped between the towers at random, illuminating the shadows for an instant before snapping off again. Thin thunder rolled after each discharge, washing over the summit and carrying down the surface of the spire.

Wrethan's teeth drew back over his lips in eager anticipation, here at last was their objective, the means to break this Hive wide open. Once these pylons fell the void shield would collapse and the Imperium's innate superiority would be made fact. It was for this reason the Storm Heralds had climbed through the winding maze of the spire, leaving the mortal Fraters behind as they emerged into the open air. Victory was within their grasp, unfortunately the Heretics weren't ready to concede that point.

Arranged around the base of the towers was a dense layer of prepared defences, multiple gun-nests laid out so to create deadly crossfires. Wrethan could just see the Heretics hunkered down beside their guns, rebreathers clamped to their faces so the mortals could breathe. This was no tawdry barricade but a determined and well organised defence, the enemy recognising the importance of this locale. Evidence of that could be seen in the presence of black-robed individuals lurking at the back, the true Disciples of Ruin overseeing this defence in person. The crossfires coming off those gun positions would be fierce, any attacker being forced to pay in blood for every metre they advanced, it was suicide to even think of attacking such a location yet for such moments had the Space Marines been forged.

Wrethan waited just out of gun range, the curvature of the spire shielding the Storm Heralds from harm but between them and the Heretic was only open ground, a perfect killing field. The Chaplain turned his head to the side and said, "It seems our path is blocked."

Besides him Captain Erathor helm was held high as he declared, "A slew of missiles will clear our path."

From beyond him Santes started and said, "Captain, I must protest, this environment is too unstable, this place is channelling astronomical amounts of energy. If one missed strike hits those capacitors this place will go up like a bomb."

Wrethan retorted, "We are Astartes, we don't miss."

But Santes countered, "Don't give me that, war is unpredictable by nature. I'm telling you we need to act sagely or we will be blown half-way to Terra."

Erathor paused for a moment then said, "The point is noted, very well. A glorious charge into melee range it is."

Wrethan knew such a charge would cost them in blood but the price had to be borne, there were no other alternatives. They would have to trust in the protection of their power armour and the grace of the Emperor to see them through. Knowing his duty was to stir the hearts of the Marines Wrethan opened his vox and proclaimed, "Brothers, today is a blessed day. Today we cleanse this hive of the wretched scum of Chaos but more than that today we reclaim our identity as the Champions and defenders of humanity. In the fires of battle shall we find our true nature, in war we shall be reforged as the warriors we were meant to be. Stoke your anger, let your hate flow through you and you shall be redeemed. For Him on Terra, show no mercy!"

The Penitent company let out a ferocious roar of savage anger and Erathor waved one lightning claw high as he yelled, "Charge!"

As one the Storm Heralds leapt into action, hurling themselves out of cover and into the killing ground. They moved at a transhuman rate, covering the distance with shocking speed and before the Heretics had even noticed their arrival they had covered a dozen metres. Wrethan was at the front of the charge, legs pumping as he raced towards the muzzles of the gun barrels. He could feel his body burn as his implanted organs spiked his blood with hyper-adrenaline, strengthening his muscles and firing his reactions to eye-watering levels. The Storm Heralds barrelled forwards in a wall of blue ceramite, closing on the Heretics with no thought for their own survival.

It was a swift charge, bold and courageous but that did not spare them. Wrethan watched as the Heretics saw them coming and finally reacted, lining up their heavy weapons and letting fly with all they had. The defences erupted with a typhoon of las, hard rounds and bolt-shells, a horizontal blizzard that scythed into the Astartes. Ceramite armour was battered by the onslaught, chipping and cracking as the damage smote them hard. Wrethan felt a solid round ping off his new breastplate, too low powered to trigger his Rosarius and he gritted his teeth against the throbbing pain that carved into his side.

Another Brother was not so lucky, a Lascannon blast hitting him in the guts and punching right through, blowing him in half. Wrethan had no time to look and see who had fallen but he spied the white blot of Santes veering off, to save the Brother if he could or harvest the gene-seed if he could not. "On Brothers, on! Fear not the storm!" Wrethan bellowed as he put his head down and redoubled his pace, running right into the face of the oncoming fusillade. Closer and closer they came, braving the torrent of firepower until they finally closed into bolter range.

Erathor lifted his voice to yell, "Bolters only, suppressing fire!" Even as they ran the Space Marines lifted their weapons and opened fire, sweeping the barricades before them with mass-reactive rounds. The Heretics seemed oddly unresponsive to the barrage but they could not ignore the sprays of shrapnel that flew into their faces. For a heartbeat the onslaught paused and Erathor yelled, "Assault Marines, strike from the skies!"

At the very rear of the line a new blaze erupted as the Assault squads fired their jump packs. Wrethan felt the wind of their launch as they blasted upwards, trails of heat from their exhausts licking at his heels. On wings of fire the Storm Heralds soared high, arcing gracefully over the closing line before plummeting back down, right into the heart of the defences. They struck the summit with bone-breaking force, throwing Heretics aside with the violence of their landing, then their chainswords went to work. Wrethan saw sprays of blood and viscera fountaining into the air as the Assault squads ripped a bloody hole in the line and Heretics fell in steaming chunks as they were hacked apart. The oncoming fire slackened off as the heart of the defence was ripped out and the Chaplain forced his body to move faster and faster. He saw a metal barricade before him and gathered himself for one mighty leap, then he cleared the rim and landed amongst the stunned enemy.

Redeeming-flame met the first Heretic with a roundhouse blow, the unique red concussion field flaring brightly as it smote the sinner. The next was decapitated by a sweep of his arm and the next had a chest stoved in by an elbow to the ribcage. All along the line the Storm Heralds matched Wrethan's feat, tearing the enemy to pieces in hand to hand combat. Wrethan felt the tide of the battle turning as he carved a bloody path through the entrenched foe, the Space Marines slaughtering the minions of Chaos with ease. He exulted in the carnage, at finding a true battle, where the Penitents were free to act as they were made to: ending the enemies of mankind as only they could.

Wrethan's advance took him right through the line to the rear but there he faced a new threat. Loitering at the back of the line was one of the Disciples of Ruin, a black-clad magos of the Mechanicus, now turned Traitor. He was a fusion of man and metal, bearing a long hafted axe, whose head was shaped like a cog-wheel and was wrapped in lightning. His body was hidden by his robe but his legs had been replaced with a quadruped arrangement of limbs, making him look like a Centayr of ancient Terran myth.

Wrethan faced this disgraced magos and roared, "Face me Traitor!"

The magos shrieked in reply, "The numbers of ruin cannot be denied!"

With that the cur leapt into a charge, his four legs propelling him forward with inexorable momentum. Wrethan threw himself aside but too slowly and was caught by the bulk of the traitor, sending him rolling upon the floor. He was back on his feet in an instant but the magos had cantered about and was sweeping the axe at his head. Wrethan saw the great weight of it falling and threw himself backwards, feeling it pass an inch from his face, then he reversed direction. As the Magos overcompensated Wrethan dove in and smote him in the flank, striking the lower torso with all his might. Red light flared and the metal panels buckled inwards, making the Traitor stagger away. Wrethan followed up with another blow to the rear, shattering one leg, another blow cracked an armoured panel on the human torso and another bent his spine.

The Disciple of Ruin was reeling but he still had one last trick to play. He let loose a shriek of binaric and Wrethan staggered as he heard the Machine Spirit of his plate yowling in alarm. It was an attack upon the soul of his power armour, a scrapcode infestation meant to cripple his plate. A great weight dragged at his limbs as his armour struggled against the machinations of Chaos but Wrethan was not daunted. His armour was the product of ancient science, blessed and consecrated by the finest artisans. The Astartes had the very best gear the Imperium of Man could produce and the Machine Spirit was a fiery match for his zeal.

Wrethan felt his armour surge back into life as the sacred data-wards and Binaric praetorian kill-codes went into effect, sweeping the scrapcode from its core with contemptuous disdain. The Magos reeled in shock as his attack was brushed aside and he cried, "How did you do that?!"

Wrethan snarled, "The Emperor has scorned you, but He is always with me!"

With that he swung Redeeming-Flame and shattered the Traitor's skull in a blast of red light. All was still for a moment, then the magos collapsed, falling to the floor limp and inert. Wrethan drew in a slow breath and looked about, seeing the battle winding down. The Heretic's defence had been obliterated, their line of guns shattered and broken by the might of the Astartes. Here and there a few survivors were flopping about but their lives were cut short by the edges of chainswords and combat blades.

Captain Erathor was flash-burning blood from his lightning claws and he called out, "Finish off the survivors swiftly then move into the pylons. Attach melta bombs to everything you see and set for timed detonation."

"Carefully," Santes called, "We want to be long gone when they go off."

Wrethan drew in a breath and then turned to lead the squads into the forest of pylons, but little did he know that he was being watched. Not very far below his feet his actions were tracked by cold and callous eyes, a cool intellect that was counting the seconds pass and waiting until the Space Marines were in the right position. It was the Fallen angel Christof and he grinned to himself as he watched the Storm Herald's advance, blissfully unaware that they were wandering into his trap.


	36. Chapter 36

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 36**

The Aqua gardens were famed throughout the sector, a series of lavish botanical domes set near to the summit of Tethys Hive. Once they had boasted carefully sculpted forests and ornamental gardens, preserved for millennium by generations of gardeners, handing down their secrets from father to son as the centuries ground past. Rare flowers had filled the air with delicate scents and small birds had flittered overhead, singing sweetly to each other. Decorative lakes and peaceful streams had trickled by, bridged by decorative wooden spars and meticulously positioned stones while strange pagodas cropped up randomly here and there. Here alone could be found species that had long since gone extinct on Ophanim, creatures that had been choked to death by the industrial pollution spilling out of the Hive cities.

The Aqua gardens had been the playground of the richest nobles, a place for them to stroll as they schemed and plotted intrigue. That the resources and effort spent maintaining the Aqua gardens could have fed millions of the common folk was never commented upon, the lot of the lesser social strata not being allowed to impinge upon the profits of the rich. Thus had this haven survived the passing of time and fortune, uninterrupted by strife, yet for all the grace and beauty it had not survived the coming of war.

The Aqua gardens were now filled with smoke and mud, piles of toppled trees and torn up lawns staining its beauty with savage disregard. The languid streams were black with debris and mouldy corpses, while the animals and birds, preserved for so long, were nought but festering bones, extinction finally claiming them. The bridges had been smashed, the pagodas toppled and the lakes filled with faeces, while the Icons of Chaos had been carved into the ground itself. The desecration was deliberate and widespread, a declaration that nothing lay beyond the reach of the Warp and the Numbers of Ruin.

Justini gripped her bolter tight as she slashed through an ankle-deep stream, the muddy water staining her armour's greaves. Behind her the gateway to the Commercia, that subtle divide between the nobility and the poor, shrank into the distance. Fraters and tanks still poured through that gate, filling the Aqua gardens with an army hell-bent on vengeance. Before her the ground rose gently up a small hillock, obscuring what lay beyond. The Sisters of Battle were at the front of the charge, pushing ahead with weapons raised. A line of black armour ringing the edge of the army, bolters held ready and every trigger was held a twitch away from firing.

To her right was an Exorcist tank, the elaborate gilded pipework projecting from its roof doubling as a missile launcher and musical organ. It blared out hymnals over the crowded Fraters behind, inspiring them to march with their heads held high, even though the music was badly tuned and tinny to the ear. To the left was Canoness Phantea and Confessor E'zard, surrounded by the Sisters Repentia, with their heavy evicerators thrumming in their grips. Yet beyond them waddled the Penitent Engines, lurching along as their pilots wailed and wept in perpetual agony.

Justini's eyes kept drifting to look at those arcane torture devices, finding Selosha's war machine among the trio. The thought made Justini's heart quail, she had known Selosha would suffer the sternest punishment for her crime but never had she dared to think that this fate awaited her. Selosha was permanently bound to the Engine, its connections burrowing into her body in a manner that meant her removal would be a death sentence. It was deliberately raw and crude, scraping it's pilot's nerves to bloody shreds and making the pain unending. Only death in battle could end Selosha's suffering and Justini knew no human could endure such torment, without going stark raving mad.

A part of Justini wondered if Selosha had truly deserved such a fate. It was shocking to think that her squad Sister, whom she had known for so long, was now a frothing madwoman, her mind reduced to scraps of pain and rage. Yet another voice in her head proclaimed sternly that such was the God-Emperor's will, Selosha had turned her back on her faith and her sentence was most assuredly just. Justini's mind retreated from her doubts, seeking security in faith and she resolved to never question His will again. She was a Sister of Battle and it was not her place to question His will, only obey.

Justini's musing was interrupted as Desity muttered, "I don't like this, the land is too open and indefensible."

Resita snorted, "We don't need cover, the God-Emperor's grace shall shield us."

But Praxi countered, "We have the full might of the Ecclesiarchy at our back, we will crush anything we find with sheer numbers."

Suddenly Justini heard Canoness Phantea calling out, "Sisters move up and secure that ridgeline." The line of black Ceramite sprang into a jog, pulling ahead of the Fraters. They swiftly ran up the short incline, cresting the top in moments. Justini's autosenses revealed a vista of fallen forests and soft meadows, all now churned to mud. Strange lights played over the landscape, ethereal colours projected by the shimmering shield pylons that loomed high above the garden's transparent dome.

Even in its devastated state the view would have been stunning, save for the wave of Flesh-Golems barrelling towards them. Bounding Hell-Geists sprang forward in great leaps while Man-Mowers rolled over the ground, their spinning blades and reciprocal scythes eager to spill blood. Heavy Spyders lumbered along while flittering Buzz-wings darted to and fro, their chattering cries already ringing forth. Justini's heart fell at the sight, seeing the tide of horror bearing down on them but then she spied the most awful sight possible: a Psyren.

Justini's heart clenched at the sight, knowing if the nightmarish creation managed to get close enough to unleash its psychic weaponry then the day was lost. Phantea must have realised the same for she roared, "Halt! Hold your nerve Sisters, it's not in range yet and we won't let get that close. Exorcists, bring that horror down!" Justini heard the tinny notes of the tank's organs squealing as their arcane mechanisms spat a volley of missiles high into the air, arcing overhead to land amid the oncoming Flesh-Golems. Detonations wracked the bulky monsters, searing their hides and blasting free limbs as the explosions swept over them but few fell to the barrage.

The Psyren staggered under the blasts but it managed to right itself and lurch onwards. Justini's gut cramped, fearing what would happen if it got close enough to unleash its psychic weaponry, but Phantea bellowed, "Hit it again!" Another volley of missiles was spat from the tanks, blasting the infernal creations once more. This time the Psyren took a direct hit and the Flesh-Golem fell to one side as a limb was blown off. "Again!" Phantea roared and a third volley spat forth, inundating the Psyren with flames and blowing it into a million chunks of steaming gore.

A cry of relief rose from the Sisters but it was short-lived. By concentrating on the Psyren the Sisters had sacrificed their chance to whittle down the remaining Flesh-Golems, allowing them to close unmolested. With a feral roar the Flesh-golems flung themselves into the fray, barrelling forward in a tide of raging monstrosity. Justini hurriedly lifted her bolter and aimed as Phantea cried, "Overwatch: open fire!"

The line of Sisters erupted into a wall of raging fire, a hammering scythe of bolt rounds that struck the Flesh-Golems as they charged into the fray. Immolators and Exorcists added their fury but the range was short and the time until the charge hit home was measured in seconds. Justini saw a Hell-Geist leaping right at her and pulled the trigger on her bolter, thundering retorts shaking her bones as she emptied the clip. The Hell-Geist was cut down by her fusillade, huge craters blown into its front as it fell over, but that did nothing to stop the pair behind it.

Justini felt her bolter clunk empty and knew there was no time to reload. She threw herself to one side as another Hell-Geist rushed into the spot where she had been standing, its gaping maw slamming shut inches from her armour. Justini's world shrank, losing all sense of where her squadmates or the Canoness were. There was no time to access the situation; all she could do was roll over and over as ironshod claws tore at the ground around her, the Flesh-golem trying to catch her with its long talons.

Justini was caking her armour in mud, staining the proud colours of the Order of the Valorous Heart, but she had no time to think of such things. All she could do was scramble for her life, knowing if she stopped moving the Hell-Geist would end her. She moved as fast as she could but even then was a hair too slow and the tip of a talon snagged her shoulder, ripping the pauldron deeply.

Justini sprawled to a halt, gazing up at the Hell-Geist as it loomed over her, jaws gaping wide to bite off her head. She reached for the knife at her belt but before her fingers could close the Hell-Geist shuddered, freezing solid as a chainsword ripped through its torso. Justini blinked as the Flesh-golem toppled over, revealing Sister Superior Karna behind, hefting her chainsword as she yelled, "Get up and fight damn you!" Justini obeyed, rising to her feet and slamming a fresh clip into her bolter. Her squad were all around her, forming a circle of defence as they fired outwards into the madness of the melee. Justini took her place between Praxi and Resita and added her bolter to theirs, blowing chunks out of the side of a Man-mower as it hurtled past.

All around the mad carnage of battle raged, Sisters of Battle meeting the Flesh-golems with unyielding resolution. Seraphims soared overhead, trading fire with buzz-wings as Dominions melted man-mowers with melta-guns and Flamers. Hell-Geists fell upon them from behind only to be blasted by squads of Sisters who were themselves struck down by ravening bursts of Black lightning. Immolators doused Flesh-golems with incandescent promethium only to be clawed to pieces by ironshod-talons and an Exorcist tank squawked as it was opened up like a ration can by a Spyder's claws. The noise was ear-splitting and the bloodshed was sickening to behold, a vista of hell that would have scarred any mortal soul for all time, but the Adepta Sororitas were unbowed. Standing proudly in the midst of battle they set their faith in the God-Emperor as a bulwark around their souls and fought on, showing the abominations of Chaos their contempt as they held their ground.

Justini matched her Sister's courage, standing her ground and blasting left and right with her bolter, but she knew it was too little to hold back the tide. The Flesh-golems were overwhelming the Sororitas, their raw power and savagery too much to hold back. The Sisters would fight to the end, bravely battling till the last of them fell but their fall seemed certain. Yet even as the thought formed there was an overwhelming roar from behind her and a solid wall of las and shells hammered into the Flesh-Golems.

Her head snapped round in shock and her heart soared as she beheld the Fraters cresting the ridgeline. Thousands of them, surging over the hillock with their lasguns blazing. They came in a vast wave of human bodies, the faithful pouring over the top of the ridgeline with righteous cries upon their lips. Their lasguns fired ceaselessly, each one individually feeble but firing in concert they were devastating. Flesh-Golems quailed as las-bolts seared their hides and set them aflame, roaring impotently as they burned. Among the ranks of the Fraters were dotted Macharius and Malcador pattern tanks, their battlecanons firing over and over in a blacksmith's rhythm of hammer blows. Shells blew apart Flesh-Golems, scattering parts everywhere as the countercharge hit home.

Justini let slip a cry of joy as the faithful overran the horrors, their sheer numbers too great to deny and their courage shining as victory beckoned them on. The foe trembled before the faith and fury of the righteous, the enemy's most potent weapons falling to the vengeance of the Imperium and Justini rejoiced to see it. The tide had turned and the battle was almost won, once they swept away this last resistance all that remained would be to carry the fight to the summit and crush the Heretics once and for all. For a moment Justini dared to think that they had done it, that the end of the war was within their grasp, but she was to be most cruelly disappointed.

From the rear of the battle came a most fearful scream, part agony, part lament and part feral madness. It carried over the battleground, cutting through the din of war and filling the air with the most blood-curdling tones imaginable. Justini had never heard the like before and she had to fight the urge to drop her bolt and clamp her hands over her helm's audio sensors. Her eyes watered and her teeth ached from the tone as it rasped through her like nails on a chalkboard but that was only the beginning.

Two long shadows fell over the swirling battle, cast by a pair of twisted abominations. They were mad fusions of metal and diseased flesh, wrapped in armour and carrying heavy weapons longer than a grown man. They raced into the battle, emitting screams of madness and let rip with terrible blasts of destructive might that sent bodies flying in all directions. With fire and death in their hands the Sorrow-Shriekers entered the fray and the true slaughter began.


	37. Chapter 37

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 37**

The shield pylons crackled with random discharges, arcs of energy leaping between them in bursts of light and noise. The thin air was sharp with the tang of ionisation and static crawled over every surface. Unseen waves of electromagnetic force billowed out from the devices, a storm of invisible energies that would have disrupted any logic engine and rendered the most potent of machines impotent. Reinforced cables thrummed as unimaginable levels of power flowed through them, pouring into the lofty trunks of the pylons, which converted it into the eldritch umbrella of a void shield.

To walk in the middle of an active shield generator was a risky course of action, placing one's life on the line. Mortals would not have considered it without first deactivating the array and even Tech-priests would have demanded special augmetics to protect their metal bodies from the disruptive environment. Yet Space Marine power armour was proof against such dangers, Ceramite surfaces being non-conductive and their delicate circuitry hardened against all known forms of electromagnetic disruption.

Walking among the pylons Wrethan could feel static crawling over his limbs, a corposant flare wrapping around his body and wafting in his wake. He did his best to ignore the tingle flowing through him but he kept Redeeming-flame inert, for now, he did not know what would happen when a Concussive field encountered the random energy fluctuations but wasn't eager to find out. The noise and the lightning flashes were irritating but his genhanced senses filtered them out easily, he could walk through an Earthshaker barrage and still be able to see and hear with absolute clarity. He was walking deeply within the array, watching as the Storm Heralds carefully attached melta-bombs to the bulky capacitors stacked around the base of the pylons. They were exactingly precise in their movements, nobody wanting to set off a premature detonation.

So far nothing had gone wrong but that would soon change, once these charges blew the entire shield array would go up like an overloading plasma generator. Wrethan had seen that happen in void warfare, when titanic starships battered each other into scrap, and he knew the explosion would be staggering to behold. Blowing most of the summit away at the very least. Ceramite was tough and Space Marines even tougher, it was possible they could survive such an explosion, but didn't like the idea of putting that to the test. Better that they were far away from here when the charges blew.

Wrethan spied Apothecary Santes among the pylons, looking in every direction as his head swivelled to and fro and moved nearer to him saying, "Apothecary, what troubles you?"

Santes kept his head turning as he said, "I'm waiting for the counter-attack."

Wrethan frowned as he said, "There seems to be no sign of such a threat."

"That's my point," Santes uttered, "The Heretics must know we have taken this place, so why are they letting us run free?

Wrethan thought about it and said, "Perhaps they have all been distracted by the Ecclesiarchy's offensive."

Santes sounded utterly scornful as he spat, "Would you be so single-minded as to miss an attack on your most vital asset?"

Wrethan's mouth opened to counter that argument but nothing came out, for his mind was reeling. The Heretics were foul hearted curs, but they were not idiots, especially with a Traitor Marine among them. It defied belief that such a foe would allow the Space Marines free rein among the shield pylons, which could only mean…

Wrethan's thoughts were cut off as a cry arose on the vox, a shout of alarm and distress. Wrethan spun about as he saw shapes looming moving among the pylons, surrounded by the burning contrails of bolt rounds. He was about to move to intervene but then from another direction came more cries of alarm and then another. Wrethan was surrounded by the noise of battle and he let slip the cry, "It's an ambush!"

All around the Chaplain an army of Flesh-golems broke out from the rooftop, smashing through carefully hidden hatches below their feet. They came up in all directions, filling the space between the pylons with their bulky hides and grasping metallic limbs. Wrethan felt the floor beneath him quiver and contort and threw himself aside as the metal gave way, leaving a gaping hole. Whirring metal limbs grasped the edges of that hole as a mass of twisted flesh heaved itself up, it was a Man-mower and its waving blades were already grasping for him.

Wrethan's perceptions accelerated as a razor-sharp blade came at him, coating in crackling energies. His Transhuman mind beheld the disruption field around it and judged that it would cut through ceramite with ease, someone had been upgrading these monstrosities to fight Space Marines. Even as the through formed his reflexes were in action, throwing him backwards and the blade skimmed a millimetre past his skull-helm. He didn't hesitate to activate Redeeming-flame, if the enemy was using power weapons then nothing less would match them, and threw himself at the mass of quivering flesh.

An overhead blow smote the Man-mower, the flare of his concussive field sending it skidding backwards. The Flesh-golem roared as part of its hide collapsed but it was far from dead and rallied to fling itself at him again. This time Wrethan stood his ground, letting it come at him. The sickening appearance of it stoked his hatred, the vile touch of Chaos writ large upon its frame. Here was the madness of the Ruinous Powers made manifest, their polluted filth wrought into physical being. Wrethan hated it in every way possible; Chaos was the essence of corruption and madness, a clawing nightmare trying to drag humanity into extinction. But the Chaplain would not allow that to happen.

As the Man-mower barrelled at him Wrethan powered forward, matching its charge. A flaring blade clipped his shoulder, tearing a deep groove into his pauldron but he escaped serious harm as he slammed bodily into the filthy creature. The impact would have smashed down a mortal man but Wrethan was merely discomforted, his bulk stopping it in its tracks, then he drove Redeeming-flame deep into its body, before triggering the concussion field. The Man-mower shook and quivered for a heartbeat, then it exploded in a fountain of red flames. Wrethan found himself showered with gore and entrails, coating him in viscera, but he paid it no mind, already running towards the nearest fight.

He found himself pulling up shoulder to shoulder with Santes and a Brother called Vikal, who were blasting away at a flock of buzz-wings circling overhead. The Apothecary was shooting them out of the sky as fast as he could but for every one he downed three more would take their place, a geyser of them flooding out of a nearby maintenance hatch. They were bobbing and weaving, in an attempt to evade destruction, yet they kept a loose formation, concentrating their fire on one target at a time. Even as Wrethan drew his pistol dozen of them let rip at Brother Vikal, cratering his armour with scores upon scores of las-blasts, until a lone shot punched through an eye lens and blew his brains out.

Wrethan added his fire to Santes' shouting, "We need heavy weapons!"

Santes hurriedly reloaded his spent pistol as he yelled back, "Too late for that, they're everywhere!"

Wrethan fired again and again as he roared, "These things are acting differently, they're smarter than before."

"What do we do?" Santes yelled over the din of battle as he resumed firing.

"Less talking," Wrethan barked, "More fighting!"

With that the Chaplain leapt into motion, running right at the hole the Buzz-wings were pouring from, braving the torrent of their fire. Las-blasts inundated him, covering him from head to toe but a holy glow surrounded him, protecting him from harm. It was his Rosarius, the sacred icon wrapping him in a Conversion field that held back the wrath of the foe. Even so Wrethan knew he had mere seconds before he was overwhelmed and he slammed his bolt pistol to his hip and grabbed a Frag grenade. A flick of his wrist sent it spinning into the hatch, disappearing into the darkness below before it detonated. The geyser of buzz-wings was cut off for a second and Wrethan leapt forward, grabbing the heavy hatch and slamming it closed.

A thunderous knocking sound pelted the hatch from the other side and Santes ran up shouting, "That won't hold them for long!"

"Long enough for us to regroup," Wrethan growled.

He looked about; searching for more Storm Heralds but all he saw was madness and death. In the shadows between the pylons Space Marines fought Flesh-golems, giving and taking the most grievous of wounds. Roaring chainswords hacked open swollen bodies but were matched by power edged blades, bolters thundered but in return melta blasts punched through Ceramite and vicious fangs tore great chunks out of hardened Transhuman bodies. Squads of Storm Heralds were everywhere, standing back to back and blasting away at the horrors surrounding them but they could not hold against the tide and were drowning in foes. Then Wrethan saw a Spyder lurch past, its bulk barely fitting between the Pylons. Captain Erathor was on its back, his lightning claws slashing it to pieces even as he yelled out cries for the squads to rally and regroup, desperately trying to establish some semblance of control over this battle.

It was too little and too late, the Storm Heralds were caught in the jaws of a trap and the spikes had sunk deep. They were culling the enemy in great numbers but it was not nearly fast enough, the Flesh-golems were coming faster than the Astartes could kill them. No matter how many they cut down more and more of them swamped the outnumbered and outgunned Space Marines. Piles of dead Flesh-golems were stacked up around the capacitors of the array but there were many blue-clad forms amongst them, brave Brothers being hacked apart by vicious crossfires and well-coordinated assaults. It wasn't just that the enemy's weapons had been upgraded; their ability to use them had been too, they were smarter, faster and more deadly than they had ever been before. The conclusion was inescapable; the Storm Heralds were losing this fight.

Suddenly Wrethan spied a blurring form leaping at Santes' back, fangs wide open in readiness to strike. There was no time to shout a warning, all Wrethan could do was grab Santes' shoulder and yank him aside, an instant before the Hell-Geist cut him down. The move saved the Apothecary's life but it left Wrethan open for a kick to the mid-riff that sent him sprawling. Wrethan fought to regain his feet but knew it was too late; the Hell-Geist had him dead to rights and would end him in a heartbeat.

Yet an instant before it could fire a cold voice called out, "Stop!" The Flesh-golem froze, unable to move a muscle. It quivered and strained to finish Wrethan off but some compulsion held it in an iron grip, locking its muscles into rigidity. Again the voice called out, "Step back" and the Hell-Geist retreated, backing away with a snarl of frustration. He could see it fighting against the command, its feral nature at war with the urge to obey but it was powerless to resist and could only stand impotent and helpless.

Wrethan looked about, searching for the source of the voice and he was stunned to see another Space Marine standing in the shadows, clad in black armour and with a hood over his head. It was the Traitor Christof, with his broadsword in his hands and smug expression upon his face. The cur was right here, in the midst of the battle and he wasn't alone, for two more Traitors stood with him, bolters pointed right at the Chaplain.

Wrethan's anger blazed in his hearts and he spat, "You, this is your doing!"

"Of course," Christof retorted, "Your strategy was obvious, easy to predict and neutralize. That's what happens when you live your life according to a dusty old book. Thankfully I am not so restrained, look at what I have accomplished, the Flesh-golems at last respond to orders. The perfect fusion of Ferro Cordes' feral power with my strategic brilliance. Order and Chaos, united under my command."

Wrethan snarled, "You rely upon trickery and deceit, you have no honour."

Yet Christof snorted, "What use is honour to a dead man? Besides I'm winning, not that you will live to see it."

Wrethan spat, "Too cowardly to finish me off yourself?!"

"You want to duel?" Christof queried sounding amused, "Very well, could use a proper workout."

One of the Traitors started and said, "You intend to duel him?"

"Relax Gwayne," Christof replied, "I've met this one before and taken his measure. He is no match for me."

Wrethan rose to his feet and lifted Redeeming-flame high as he snarled, "You know nothing filth, the Emperor sent me here for a reason and I think he wants me to kill you."

Christof's only response was to sneer scornfully then the pair flew at each other and the duel began in earnest.


	38. Chapter 38

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 38**

Screaming the wails of the damned, the Sorrow-shriekers charged into the midst of the Fraters, their mighty feet shaking the mud with every step. Their great strides covered the distance in moments, sending them hurtling into the heart of the faithful's army, unleashing devastation all around them. They wrought utter carnage as they charged, annihilating people and Flesh-golems alike, not caring who they slaughtered, so long as the blood flowed.

The pair loomed over the battle, casting long shadows as the flickering void shield pulsed overhead. They were twisted giants, wrapped in fleshy tendrils that borrowed through their frames and wormed into joints while mouldy growths infested every plate and rod. Those plates were filthy and desecrated but scraps of heraldry proclaimed them to be former Knights of House Hawkshroud, captured, mutilated and enslaved to Chaos. Once the cream of Imperial honour and valour, now they were turned to the service of the dark gods, their rage and anguish fuelling a symbiosis of wrath and hatred. The Disciples of Ruin had wrought their ultimate horrors and the dark genius of Ferro Corde had reached new heights of insanity.

Justini stood slack-jawed as the Sorrow-shriekers carved a path through the battle, leaving fire and death in their wake. Atop their carapaces squat missile launchers spat a slew of explosives deep into the Frater's ranks, each blast throwing broken bodies aside by the dozen. Those who escaped the first volley were spared only for a moment, as the heavy stubbers chattered ceaselessly, drawing long lines of red ruin through the masses of wailing people. Heavy tanks and armoured Sisters were hardly any better off, targeted by crackling bursts of Black lightning. Fiery devastation wrapped them end to end, electrocuting tank crews at their posts and shattering ceramite power armour into a billion shards of shrapnel.

The Sorrow-shriekers were unstoppable, breaking all resistance with ease and making a mockery of the faithful's strength with every step. They were hideous to look upon and bloody-handed in deed, but the worse thing about them was the constant wailing cries issuing from the vox-horns implanted in their sides. Screams of madness and torment, torn from the lips of the pilots still within the machines. To hear them was to know that there was still a human being locked within those hideous frames, undergoing agonising torment as the filthy tendrils of Chaos wormed their ways into their hearts and minds.

Justini watched as the pair tore a path through the faithful, wrecking carnage left and right. They were killing hundreds of Fraters, and many of their own side, but even so there were some who resisted. From the midst of the Fraters came a hardened wedge of armoured vehicles, heavy tanks rumbling forward with their cannons raised. At their head ran Canoness Phantea and Confessor E'zard, leading the Sisters Repentia.

As one the battle tanks fired, sending a wave of shells right at the hearts of the giant monsters. The artillery was devastatingly powerful, enough to bring them down but not one made contact. A metre from their hulls the shells detonated, blowing apart as they hit the shimmering Ion shields protecting the corrupted knight's hulls. They strode through the resulting cloud of smoke, their shields flickering and hazing, then they returned fire.

Arcs of black lightning smote the nearest tanks, electrocuting their crews and cooking off their ammunition. They blew up one by one, turrets blown free and hatches spilling fire everywhere while flaming men crawled out and flailed wildly as they burnt to death. Meanwhile stubbers rattled, cutting down Sisters Repentia in droves, their unarmoured flesh unable to withstand even crude bullets. Barely half of them reached the giants, the rest left bleeding out on the ground.

Phantea was the first into the fight, her power sword describing an arc of crackling energy as she hacked at the leg of one of the Sorrow-shriekers. The monster barely noticed, continuing to blast away into the crowds all around, but then Confessor E'zard lowered his flaming staff at the gash and let loose a ray of searing power. The beam struck the spot dead on and bored deeply within, melting mechanisms and searing tendrils to ash. The tones of agony coming from the Sorrow-shrieker changed, becoming more sharp and incisive and Justini thought that they had landed a telling blow. Swift on her heels the sisters Repentia piled in, swinging their eviscerators in great sweeps to hack and gouge while Phantea raised her sword again, but before the blade could land the giant stepped backwards, sweeping its leg away so the blow missed. Justini gasped but she was too far away to intervene as the giant aimed its black lightning gun and fired.

Searing energies engulfed the area, digging into exposed bodies and charring skin black. The Sisters Repentia all died in throws of agony, cut down in moments, their vow to find redemption or death fulfilled in the most final way possible. Justini watched in horror as the blast faded, revealing Phantea and E'zard laid out upon the ground. Their bodies encased in fading conversion fields as their Rosarius' fought to keep them alive. The holy relics had saved their lives but the damage was still immense and they had been battered into unconsciousness by the blasts of power. The Sorrow-shrieker snarled in frustration and moved to end them, but before it could strike another shell flew from the side and impacted its Ion shield.

Amid the smoking wreckage of the destroyed tanks a single turret was still working, one lone Macharius pattern vehicle that had escaped the destruction of its kin. The double-barrelled turret had been skewed by its last shot, the recoil mechanism broken and non-functional and it struggled to bring its aim back onto target. The fat barrel crept into line but before the crew could fire there was a surge in the smoky clouds beside it and the other Sorrow-shrieker came charging out of the murk.

With booming footsteps it fell upon the tank, its tri clawed hand cutting through the turret like butter. Screeching cries of metal on metal rang loudly as the giant plunged its digits into the yielding armour, tearing the turret free of the chassis. The tank's engine died as the tainted knight tossed the turret aside and the hatches popped to allow the crew to evacuate. The Sorrow-shrieker cared not though, for it grabbed the smoking remnants of the machine in its claw and heaved it off the ground, lifting the multi-ton tank as if it were nothing. It lofted the chassis high, then threw the broken tank into the middle of the Frater's milling ranks, crushing scores of them as the immense machine flipped end to end, coming to rest upside down in a puddle of oil and blood.

The Sorrow-shrieker lifted its arms to the heavens and let slip a roar that was part triumph, part despair as it lent voice to its tormented existence. The pilot within retaining enough sanity to lament the violence he was unleashing. The cry spilt the air, grinding upon the ear like a rasp and making many Fraters cry and drop to their knees, their brittle courage shattering before the might set against them. The mighty army of the Ecclesiarchy, previously so close to victory, had been broken and defeated by a mere two monsters. The last effort to win this war had failed and their utter annihilation seemed certain.

Justini refused to believe what she was seeing, it couldn't end like this, she would let it and so she yelled, "We have to do something!"  
Praxi sounded aghast as she cried, "What can we do against that?!"

"Something," Justini uttered, "Anything!"  
Karna concurred, "She's right, we have to get into this fight! Come on!"

Karna set off, weapons held ready and the squad followed, some more eagerly than others. The Sorrow-shriekers were moving again, plunging deeply into the army and laying waste to all they saw. Justini felt how feeble her bolter was in comparison to the power they wielded and she realised she had no idea how they were going to stop those nightmarish giants. The very thought of mere mortals attacking such creatures was laughable; they could crush her underfoot without even noticing. Fear clawed at her guts, draining her strength and a cold sensation filled her lungs, trying to stop her breathing. Only her faith kept her running, the thought that the God-Emperor would watch over her and she cried, "Praise the Emperor for without Him we nothing. Love the Emperor for He is the salvation of Mankind."

Beside her Resita heard her prayer and added her voice shouting, "Obey his words for He will lead you into the light of the future!"  
Then Praxi yelled, "Heed his wisdom for He will protect you from evil."  
Desity was the next to proclaim, "Say His prayers with devotion, for they will save your soul."  
Then Karna barked, "Honour His servants for they speak with His voice."

Then as one the whole squad shouted, "Tremble before his majesty, for we walk in His immortal shadow!"

Righteous faith filled Justini and steeled her soul, firing her courage and before she knew it they had reached the feet of the giants, approaching one from behind. It rose as a column of armour and warped tendrils before her, thick and impenetrable, but Karna had ideas of her own. "Quickly, phosper grenades," the Sister Superior ordered, pulling a canister from her belt. Justini hurried to obey, gripping her own device and looking for a place to insert it. The leg was momentarily still, as the Sorrow-shrieker fired away into the army, but she knew her window of opportunity was small. She spied a nook among the tendrils and shoved the grenade into it, pulling the pin as she withdrew her hand. The rest of the squad had done the same, jamming incendiary devices into the leg and they fell back as one. Seconds crawled by, each one lasting an eternity as Justini waited, then the grenades detonated.

Plumes of fire burst all around the width of the leg, a blazing conflagration engulfing the limb in destruction. Armoured plates blackened and writhing tendrils withered as the Sorrow-shrieker howled in agony, staggering as its lower half was bathed in flames. "Yes!" Justini cried aloud, joyful at the sight. She waited for the giant to topple over into the mud, but to her horror it did not fall. The thicker armour plates were blackened but unbroken and the tendrils scorched off the surface but mechanisms beneath were undamaged. As the fires burned out the monster stayed upright, its gait righting as it recovered and turned to face its attackers. Justini's jaw fell as she saw the Sorrow-shrieker come about, its immense weapons turning to point at them.

"Run!" Karna yelled but too late for the immense foot lifted high and slammed back down, right in the middle of the squad and in one stamp it crushed Desity to paste under its enormous foot. Shock and disbelief warred in Justini's heart, Desity was gone, but worse than that their attack upon the Sorrow-shrieker had failed and they had barely hurt it. Justini tried to process what they were going to do next but before she could respond the giant's other leg came about, sweeping through the scattered squad.

Justini was hit by a wrecking ball of metal and flesh, sending her flying backwards with the wind knocked out of her. Her armour wailed in distress as she hit the muddy ground, its servo motors stuttering and the ceramite cracked over her breast. The world was spinning around her and spots of colours flashed in her eyes as she struggled merely to breathe, a cloying sense of darkness trying to drag her down into unconsciousness. She couldn't move, or roll over; all she could do was try to stay conscious as the Sorrow-shrieker came to stand over her.

Justini lay there, heart thundering in her chest as she looked up at the invulnerable giant, its plates and amour left unbroken as the flames covering its legs died out. Justini's spirit fell as she realised the Sorrow-shrieker had taken everything they could throw at it and been barley troubled. Now it would end them utterly. She watched as the immense Lightning gun swung towards her and she knew it spelt her doom. Her life was measured in seconds and she did not even have time to rise from the mud, death looked upon her with hungry eyes and it was too late to flee. As the barrel came to point right at her all she could do was lay in the mud and chant over and over, "The Emperor Protects, the Emperor Protects, the Emperor…"

Then as if in answer to her prayers a roar of pain and anger arose, torn from the throat of a soul lost to madness. It carried over the field, cutting through the din of battle, making all present quail before it but it did not come from the Sorrow-shrieker. Justini's head snapped about and behind the giant monster she spied three more war machines, charging on back jointed legs with spinning buzz-saws held high. They were covered in purity seals and polished skulls and strapped to their fronts were condemned sinners. The Penitent Engines, racing through the bloody battlefield to meet the foe blade to blade.

The Sorrow-shrieker forgot Justini and tried to turn to meet these new foes but it was too slow. In one great leap the three Penitent Engines threw themselves at the pair of giants, torture machine against torture machine and Justini had no idea which would emerge victorious.


	39. Chapter 39

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 39**

Among the flaring pylons two Space Marines fought, trading blows faster than a human eye could follow. One of them a disgraced and exiled warrior, seeking his redemption, the other an unrepentant turncoat, refusing to apologise for anything. Their exchange was fast and furious, giving no quarter and asking for none, each knowing death was a heartbeat away.

Wrethan was fighting for all he was worth, attacking with all his passion. He was a powerful and driven warrior, fired by his righteous hatred but he was keenly aware of the scores of cuts and tears he had already taken. Christof on the other hand fought with cool detachment, his blade darting from place to place in the strobing lights of the shield array. He fought with the skill of a master swordsman, honed by millennia of experience and practice. He never lost his balance or left an opening unguarded, easily parrying all the Chaplain's attacks while blazes of light flashed whenever the two weapon's energy fields interacted.

Wrethan felt another blow slip past his guard, nicking his belly armour and tearing at his skin. Again and again he had been wounded, but the fatal blow had yet to land. His Rosarius keeping him from dying in a single thrust, but it was only buying him time and he was losing this fight. Wrethan's anger surged, feeling hatred filling his hearts. He swung his Crozius at the Traitor in a roundhouse blow but Christof adroitly parried and then his sword flicked upward, tearing through the front of Wrethan's skull-helm. Ceramite parted and autosenses dissolved into a wash of static and Wrethan had to fling himself backwards and rip his helm off to see.

Dew and wind struck Wrethan's face and he retreated backwards as he dumped his helm and shouted, "I will kill you Traitor!"

Christof followed him step for step as he snorted, "Bluster and outrage, that's all you are. You don't have what it takes to kill me."

Feeling ionisation crawl over his bare head Wrethan snarled back, "I will make you pay for your treachery!"

Christof seemed needled by that and spat back, "You don't know me, you don't know what I have done. I regret none of it and I ask for no forgiveness."

Wrethan gripped Redeeming-flame tighter but before the duel could resume another voice called out, "Christof, stop playing about and get on with it!"

It was one of the other Traitors, who was standing back to watch the duel, and Christof replied, "Very well Rauf, let's take him together."

Wrethan couldn't help but glance in the Traitor's direction, his eyes flickering for an instant and in that sliver of opportunity Christof struck. The long blade of the Sword of Solitude carved across Wrethan's breastplate, leaving a deep furrow in the armour but also tearing the chain of his Rosarius in two and yanking away the holy icon. Wrethan gasped in denial as Christof snatched the Rosarius off his blade and swung it around his wrist taunting, "Nice toy, I think I'll keep it."

The insult to Wrethan's honour was immense, a Holy Rosarius was a sacred trust and to see it in the hands of a Traitor was intolerable. The Chaplain roared in anger as he launched himself bodily at Christof, swinging his Crozius as hard as he could yet Christof was faster and now there was no conversion field to stand in his way. The Sword of Solitude blurred and Wrethan felt pain lance over his left flank, then his right bicep and finally his right thigh. Each wound was deep, tearing muscles and tendons and leaving him weakened and slow, unable to run or fight with his good arm, open for a killing stroke that would finish him off once and for all.

Wrethan was forced to retreat, staggering away as he swapped Redeeming-flame to his left hand and blood dripped freely from his wounds. Christof grinned as he levelled his blade to run Wrethan through but suddenly and without warning one of the pylons behind him flared, its capacitors discharging in a thunderous flash of energy and noise. Christof's blade point wavered a hairsbreadth and Wrethan saw his chance and knew in his weakened state he would not get another. He threw aside any notion of self-defence and flung himself forward, sending his Crozius hurtling at the Traitor. It was Christof's turn to fall-back, but the golden mace caught him in the side and crumpled his armour, sending him lurching away.

The Chaplain staggered after him, preparing another blow before the filth could recover but before he could make contact there was the crack of a bolter firing and a hammerblow smashed into Wrethan's back. The Chaplain fell to the floor, feeling blood flowing from the wound in his back and heard the wailing of his armour as the treacherous blow violated its integrity. Wrethan forced himself to roll over and came to rest sitting against a capacitor, propping his backpack on the hot surface. Wrethan's could feel his body trying to piece itself together but knew it would be too slow; the Traitors would kill him first.

He lifted his head and saw Christof strolling nearer, an insolent grin on his face as one of his fellow Fallen cleared the chamber on his bolter. Wrethan swallowed a glut of blood and snarled, "He shot me in the back!"

Christof snorted, "Of course Rauf did, what else were you expecting from us?"

Wrethan growled in disgust, "You are a foul cur, but you forgot one thing."

"What's that?" Christof asked cockily.

Wrethan lifted his head and declared, "I didn't come here alone either."

Christof started but before he could react there was the roar of a chainsword activating and the terrible screeching of Ceramite shattering as a long blade cleaved through the Traitor Rauf's spine. The other Fallen spun about only to see Apothecary Santes rising from the deck, the forgotten Storm Herald coming to Wrethan's rescue. The white-clad Space Marine threw the corpse of the Traitor off his blade and launched himself at Christof, chainsword lunging for his face. The spinning blades moved like quicksilver but the Traitor was faster.

The Apothecary was already too close to fight off with the long broadsword but Christof wasn't intending to use it. Even as the sword flew at him his hand shot out and caught the other Fallen by the shoulder and heaved him into the path of the weapon. There was the clash of Ceramite on Ceramite as Santes slammed into the Fallen, his chainsword ripping through guts in an awkward slice. The two staggered back from their unexpected impact and the Fallen collapsed, nearly torn in half at the waist.

His hands moved feebly to cover his guts but it was already too late to deny his death, he barely had the strength to look at Christof and gasp, "Why…"

"Sorry Gwayne," Christof sighed, "But it was you or me, and I don't intend to die as Rauf did. Besides, we both know you would have done the same to me, had you a second more to think about it."

From the floor Wrethan saw one Traitor expire but that still left Christof to be dealt with and he cried, "Santes, finish him!"

The Apothecary rallied, brandishing his Chainsword but Christof smirked as he said, "Nice try but that's not going to happen."

With that he swung the Sword of Solitude point down and drove it into the floor, cracking open the panels all around him. Santes staggered as the disruption field tore apart the rooftop, caving in its surface to reveal a pit under his feet. Christof was already jumping back to clear the drop but Santes was too slow and he disappeared into the depths with a forlorn cry, vanishing into the dark levels below the summit.

Christof swiftly regained his balance and shook some grit off his boot saying, "So… where was I? Oh yes, I was about to kill you."

While this had been occurring Wrethan had been forcing himself upright, ignoring the agony in his torn muscles and reknitting bones. He drew his good leg under him and heaved himself up, one hand pressed into the bulk of the pylon for support. Inch by painful inch he rose, until he was vertical with his back pressed against the metal wall. Christof turned about and cocked an eyebrow as he said, "You want to die on your feet, I can respect that."

Wrethan gripped Redeeming-flame in his left hand and growled, "No, this end with your death."

Christof raised the Sword of Solitude between them and laughed, "Pathetic, you know you can't beat me yet still you persist. The Imperium is no better than Chaos, neither are worth dying for, yet you remain determined to suffer for a corpse on a throne."

Wrethan stared at the vile Traitor and knew he was outmatched, the Chaplain couldn't beat him in a duel, which meant there was but one option left. He drew in a slow breath and uttered, "You will never understand because you forgot who you were. You threw everything away when you turned your back on the Imperium!"

Christof's cool visage cracked and his eyes narrowed as he spat, "It turned its back on me! Everything I have done is because my kin betrayed me first. I was a loyal son, swept away by calamity and when I returned my Legion treated me like I was a Traitor, they hunted me across the stars in their mad quest to make every Fallen repent. Well, I refuse, I regret nothing I have done, I apologise for none of it and I shall never repent!"

Wrethan's lip curled as he growled, "That is why you shall never be redeemed. Atonement is not some arbitrary punishment, it is to remind you of who you are meant to be. You reject everything you ever stood for; you hold nothing in regard save your worthless hide. I however know the secret of redemption and it is a truth that shall destroy you."

Christof grinned mockingly and stepped closer, brandishing his sword and saying, "And what is this vaunted truth?"

Wrethan drew in a breath, feeling the beat of his hearts and the sharp spikes of pain in his limbs as he declared, "I was sent forth to remind me of who I am… of who I have always been. I am the Emperor's Storm."

Christof's eyes widened shock, not from the proclamation but from the way Wrethan suddenly reversed his grip on his Crozius, dropping its head to hang downwards. Then he rammed it backwards, straight into the capacitor he was leaning against. "No!" Christof yelled but it was too late, the red flare of the concussion field surged into life, rupturing the containment vessel and releasing the staggering amounts of energy held within. Purest light exploded in all directions, burning like the corona of a star and swallowing all around it as Wrethan shouted, "I am His wrath!"

The explosion burned brilliantly among the array, melting metal cables and destroying essential supports. The pylon lurched as its foundations were violated, staggering to one side before beginning a ponderous fall. Flaring shield energies surrounded its length, disintegrating as the structure fell apart. Multi-coloured bolts of lightning poured out of it, catching the other pylons and overloading their systems with crippling power surges and triggering the melta bombs strapped to their bases. Another tower detonated as its arcane mechanism were sundered, blasting more energies outwards, then another tower blew up, and another. In an unstoppable cascade the shield array tore itself shreds, towers toppling or blowing up like fireworks as capacitors overloaded and munitions detonated. A chain of searing explosions rippled across the summit of the spire, each detonation feeding the next until a crown of fire wreathed the top of Tethys Hive.

Flesh-golems burned as the explosions engulfed them, their foul bulk charring black and their metal implants melting to bubbling pools of liquid. They roared and flailed in defiance but nothing could avert their fate, in mere moments the elite forces of Chaos were burnt to ash, their threat ended in an inferno of destruction. The Space Marines fared little better, ceramite shattering under the concussive shockwaves, and many of were them torn to shreds by flying shrapnel or burnt to death by licking flames. Some were crushed under toppling pylons, or buried in debris and one Brother was even flung from the rooftop entirely, sent tumbling to the ground far, far below. Here and there a Brother survived, sheltered by piles of debris or buried under fallen Flesh-golems, but still scores of them died in the inferno.

Christof screamed as the conflagration swept over him, his ancient armour scorched bare of icons and his face scalded red raw as he disappeared in a sea of fire. Yet Wrethan saw none of it, caught at the very epicentre of the explosion he was engulfed in a crescendo of destruction. Shockwaves shattered his armour and body while blazing tongues of fire sank claws deep into his body. Death rode fast on their heels, taking Wrethan into its embrace and carrying him away into the darkness of eternal sleep.

Yet in his last moment Wrethan knew only triumph, the battle was won, the Traitors had been defeated and the Imperium was victorious. But more importantly he had found his redemption, he had died as Space Marine should, fighting for the noblest of causes and giving his life for his Emperor and all mankind. With his last act Wrethan once more became a Storm Herald of the Adeptus Astartes, a true champion of the Imperium and a defender of all mankind. He died well, he died in victory and the knowledge of that fact would accompany him into shades beyond the veil of death.

Thus did the life of Wrethan end: Brother, Chaplain, and Storm Herald to the last.


	40. Chapter 40

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 40**

With a scream of insane rage the Penitent Engines fell upon the Sorrow-Shriekers, their buzz saw blades spinning and flamers disgorging torrents of incandescent retribution. They attacked with a frenzy of blows, hacking, stabbing and clawing at the monstrous Flesh-golems with rabid savagery. Armour plates screeched as they were sawn open, exposing bulging slabs of meat and oily gears which were swiftly severed.

The Penitent Engines were nearly as tall as the tainted Knights, coming up to their shoulders and they surrounded the pair, attacking over and over until oily blood ran down their legs to puddle on the ground. The Sorrow-shriekers screamed at the offence wrought against them, lashing out with their weapons in blind fury. Missiles fired randomly, soaring away to smash down among the milling Fraters, who were lost and confused in the carnage while black lightning struck out, carving furrows into the landscape and setting fresh fires in the smoking remnants of the tanks. Had any of these blows landed the Penitent Engines would have been destroyed, but they were in too close, pressing right into the bulk of the Flesh-golems where they could not be targeted by heavy weapons.

In frustration they resorted to their feet and claws, swinging wildly in an attempt to catch their attackers as they darted to and fro. One of the pair managed to land a glanced blow to the side of a Penitent Engine, ripping the metalwork deeply and showering purity seals and cracked skulls into the mud. The machine staggered drunkenly and its heavy foot nearly crushed Justini where she was laying. The Sister was forced to roll through the cloying mud, feeling immense feet stomping down around her as dirt sprayed high.

She came to rest some way away and stopped to look up to see the fight raging. The Penitent Engines were darting in and out, slashing and tearing at the Sorrow-shriekers with their spinning blades. Like a pack of hounds worrying at a bear the smaller war machines relied upon speed, leaving bloody tears running down the flanks of their larger foes. In return the tainted Knights swung wildly, trying to catch their attackers in their great claws. The Penitent Engines were faster and had the advantage of numbers but the Flesh-golems were more powerful and better armed, they had no exposed pilots to target and their armour was thick and broad.

Both orders of machine were the product of arcane science, both designed to inflict pain and suffering upon their pilots but where one was sworn to the service of the God-Emperor the others served Chaos. One was the result of stern justice, the other a tortured nightmare made real. They were mirror images of each other but there was one key difference between them, one side had left its pilots exposed. Justini watched as one of the Sorrow-shriekers lifted a leg and kicked a Penitent Engine hard, sending it skidding away. The machine righted itself with surprising grace but it was still too slow, for the Knight's stubber came up and let slip a rattling salvo. Fat bullets peppered the front of the blessed machine, pinging off metal but punching hard into soft skin and bones. The sinner bound to the front jerked as the rounds penetrated his innards, then he slumped down and died, leaving the Penitent Engine lifeless.

Justini's jaw dropped at the sight but the other Penitent Engines were not slowed for in their madness they were immune to shock. One of the other machines gathered itself and leapt high, driving its arms into the weaker armour over the back of the Knight. The Sorrow-shrieker roared in anger but could do nothing but shake wildly as the Penitent Engine sawed its arms deeper and deeper into the internal workings. Oil and blood cascaded out of the wounds, a waterfall of vital fluids gushing forth and still the attacker pushed deeper and deeper, tearing guts to shreds. The Sorrow-shrieker let loose one last desperate wail and then it fell still and limp, its power core sundered like a pierced heart.

Justini let slip a cry of triumph as one Flesh-golem fell silent but the other was still fighting. It bellowed in fury as it swung its claw but no matter how it moved it could not land a telling blow. The other Penitent Engine dropped down to join the fray and now the giant was outnumbered two to one, both opponents cutting and slicing at its torso and legs with repeated slashing attacks. Justini thought they would finish it off, but at that moment there was an almighty thunder from above and the spire itself shook. Above their head a raging fireball billowed forth, filling the sky with raging tempest of multi-coloured hues as the shield envelope over Tethys Hive collapsed.

Justini didn't understand what had just happened but the tainted Knight was not slow to take advantage. As its foes staggered in the earthquake it bent its knees and reached out its claw, scooping up a pile of men and woman from the ground. Some of them were still alive, kicking feebly but powerless to resist as the knight drew back its arm and threw them at the Engines. Soft human flesh tore on impact, snapping bones and spilling blood everywhere as the people splattered upon the hard metal. The Penitent Engines were blinded by the shower of limbs and entrails and in that moment of vulnerability the Sorrow-Shrieker levelled its Black lightning gun and fired. A sinner was caught in the actinic blast, screaming as infernal energies ripped his nervous system to shreds and charring his skin to leave only a blackened husk behind. Then the Penitent Engine keeled over with a dull thud, lying lifelessly in the mud.

That left only one and Justini was stunned to see it was Selosha's Engine. The sinner threw herself at the diabolical knight, screaming shrilly as she hacked at its bulk. She was fast and vicious in her strikes but this time the Sorrow-Shrieker could focus on one foe and its great claw struck the top of the smaller Engine, tearing one of its smokestacks clean off. The Engine staggered as it lost power and its movements slowed, leaving it open to another hit and another, each one shearing away essential mechanisms.

Justini gasped at the sight, unable to believe what was happening. Despite all their rabid fury the Penitents had not defeated the foul giant and the battle teetered on the edge of being lost. She had to do something; she had to stop this enemy, no matter what. Justini thought for an instant about taking her bolter and charging right at the duelling war machines, shooting every round she had left but she knew it was a futile gesture. The Sorrow-shrieker had taken down tanks and Penitent Engines; by comparison her weapon was as an insect's bite.

Desperately she cast her eyes about, looking for anything she could use but all she saw were dead bodies and flaming wrecks. She was about to scream in frustration, but then she paused and looked again, noticing what she had missed before. Laying face down in a mud puddle was a Frater, the fact that he was dead obvious by the angle of his snapped neck. He was like any other of the volunteers save for the bulky suicide vest strapped to his chest, meaning he must be one of the Holy Martyrs.

Before Justini could think about it she got onto her hands and knees and crawled over to the body, blood-drenched mud clinging to her greaves. She grabbed the body and rolled it over, seeing that the trigger clasps were unopened, a good job too or she would have just blown herself to smithereens. She knew it was impossible to open safely but the man was slight and malnourished and she was able to yank the jacket up over his head and pull it off intact. She turned it over in her hands, trying to think of a way to trigger it but there was no timer, the vests were meant to blow up as soon as they were opened.

A thunderous slamming noise distracted Justini and she saw the two machines were battering at each other in an orgy of violence. The noise of the conflict was incredible, the wails of the Sorrow-shrieker mixed with the mad screams of Selosha, interspersed with the booming crashes as the two machines smote each other. The blows were thunderous exchanges of destruction but the Sorrow-shrieker was swiftly gaining the upper hand and Selosha's Engine couldn't last much longer. She felt time running out and she desperately grabbed a Phosper grenade from her belt and stuffed it into a pocket of the vest, she didn't know if that would work but it was all she had. Hurriedly she grabbed the vest and stood up, taking a lurching step towards the battling pair of torture machines, who seemed completely unaware of her presence. As she approached they continued to batter away at each other, sending sparks flying along with razor-sharp splinters. Justini held onto the awkward jacket, the heft of its demo charges making it a dead weight on her arm. She came as close as she could to the back of the Sorrow-shrieker, seeing a vulnerable spot where a plate had been shorn clean off and she reached for the pin of her grenade.

At that very moment the tainted Knight ducked low and thrust its arms forward, going straight for Selosha's body. A spinning buzzsaw caught the huge claw and stopped it in its tracks, but the bulky heft of the Lightning gun slipped past the guard and rammed into the woman strapped to the machine's front. Had a Penitent Engine been designed with a cockpit then this wouldn't have mattered, but sadly there was no such protection to be found. The multi-ton weight slammed into Selosha, crushing her lower half and shattering her bones like kindling. The Penitent Engine stood still for a moment, then it slowly toppled backward, slamming into the mud in a spray of sodden earth.

Justini's heart cried out in denial, but her hands were already moving. Moving on automatic she pulled the pin loose then twisted and heaved her explosive at the Sorrow-shrieker, her power armoured strength sending it flying as she shouted, "God-Emperor, guide my aim!" The cumbersome vest flopped through the air but its course was true and her prayer was not in vain. She had timed it exactly right and just as the heavy weight struck the grenade popped, disgorging fiery destruction. The vest held for all of one second, then its material failed and the demo charges triggered. Justini was lifted off her feet and thrown backwards as a shockwave slammed into her. Her bones rattling and her ears ringing like cathedral bells, but the sacred protection of her plate kept her from being eviscerated. Unfortunately it could do nothing to dissipate the impact of hitting the ground and she felt something in her shoulder snap as she struck the mud. Her head swam as she flopped about and her mind whispered that she had a concussion, but she had to see what was happening and woozily forced her head up.

Before her the Sorrow-shrieker was staggering drunkenly, one leg held on by nothing more than a cracked rod. It lurched heavily to one side, trying to recover but the damage was too severe and even as she watched the leg gave way, snapping in two. It was the tainted Knight's turn to fall, crashing down into the dirt and it wailed and snarled in distress as it lay upon its back. Justini forced herself to her feet and staggered nearer, only the assistance of her plate keeping her vertical. The world was hazy before her eyes but she tottered nearer, looking for an opening. The knight was on its back, arms flailing uselessly at the sky, but she could see the top hatch had been ripped open in the fall and hung loosely on shattered hinges.

Justini lifted her bolter and wobbled to the opening, her ears still ringing, then she pointed her weapon within. Inside the knight was a mad tangle of tendrils, invasive cancers spiking into the systems and worming their way into the Throne Mechanicum. It was sickening and revolting to any Imperial citizen, the unmistakable corruption of Chaos made real. Yet at the centre of it was a bound man, his flesh fused into the pulsing tendrils that enveloped him. The man's head came up, his face a picture of woe and misery and he pleaded, "Do it…"

Justini's trigger finger jerked and her bolter fired, sending a spray of rounds into the heart of the Sorrow-Shrieker. Blood and oil fountained out of the hatch as she kept her grip firm, firing ceaselessly into the abomination. She held on with gritted teeth as her shoulder protested but then the bolter ran dry and she beheld her handiwork. Where before there had been mad corruption now lay a puddle of gore, a burst blister of disgusting ooze that wept unspeakable filth as the Flesh-golem at last fell still.

The wailing noise finally died away and Justini staggered back, looking around for her comrades. All she saw was a vista of hell, pools of fire strewn everywhere mixed with blackened bodies. Of her squad she could see nothing but she spied Selosha's machine lying upon its side, her corpse hanging limply from the implanted mechandrites like a puppet on a string. Justini didn't know if this meant Selosha had atoned for her crime, but she knew that they would never have won without her Sister's intervention. It was a staggering realisation for the pious Sister: Selosha's crime, her punishment and her presence here must all have been intended, Justini thought, truly all things occurred in accordance with the God-Emperor's will. Her heart filling with iron certitude and the indomitable, fiery conviction of a true zealot she dropped to her knees and gave thanks, crying, "Praise the God-Emperor! Praise be!"


	41. Chapter 41

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 41**

The fires had finally died out, leaving the battlefield a smoking ruin. Piles of dead lay everywhere, heaped across the burnt-out wrecks of tanks and strewn randomly across the fields of the Aqua gardens. Dead eyes stared into infinity as blood congealed over every surface and bowels voided as decomposition set in. It was not just human beings either; the Flesh-golems lay wherever they had fallen, their bodies reduced to oozing mounds of blubber in the crossfire. In one spot a Sorrow-shrieker stood dead and immobile, its limbs powerless and systems inert with its power core destroyed.

Amazing as it seemed there were living beings among the dead, shocked and horrified survivors of the assault. They wandered to and fro mindlessly, many of them having lost any claim to sanity in the savagery of the fight. They giggled and wept and chattered inanely, while one man walked with an apparently purposeful stride, seemingly normal save of the fact that he carried his amputated right arm under his left, like a man carrying a case to an appointment. The Sisters had fared better, their constant training and peerless sanctity fortifying their spirits against the horrors of war. They retreated to prayer and hymns to stave off the madness, closing their minds to all save their dogmatic creeds.

From the distant gate to the Commercia streamed fresh Fraters and tanks, the endless waves of faithful streaming from the lower levels. It seemed impossible to think that the devastation wrought on the Imperial army had not obliterated it, yet more and more fresh souls marched from the rear, their numbers so vast that even this slaughterhouse had not broken them. The newcomers marched by with looks of horror, trying and failing to imagine the carnage that must have occurred here. They didn't understand, no one could unless they had lived through it and for those that had there was only the forlorn wish that they had not.

Justini sat on the ground and watched the Fraters stream past, heading further into the spire. Her battered armour was covered in mud and she had removed her helm so she could breathe free, a decision she had regretted once the stench of death hit her nostrils. Yet she endured, this was the field of victory and should be honoured so. Her left arm was fixed tight to her breast, the power armour locking her limb solid as it injected pain balms. Medical sensors told her she had broken her collarbone and she would need to see a sawbones at some point, but for now this would suffice.

Beside her Praxi was sitting, her own armour hardly any better as she wondered, "Where do you think they are going?"

Karna was on Justini's other side and said, "They are heading to the summit, to capture the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor and the Governor's Palace."

Resita was further along and said, "We should go with them."

Praxi snorted, "You're joking, right now nothing less than a signed order from the Ecclesiarch himself could part me from this spot."

Karna shook her head and said, "We're in no state for another fight, prayer and meditation will come later but for now orders are to rest."

Resita muttered something under her breath but Justini said, "Do you think the Heretics can offer any resistance after this slaughter?"

Karna sighed, "I expect so, this war never seems to end. The fight won't be over until we march into the Golem-foundry and kill Ferro Corde. "

Praxi was looking up and mused, "Any idea what that big explosion was?"

"Not a clue," Karna answered, "War is a crazy business, it could have been anything."

Justini disagreed, "No, nothing is random, all things act in accordance with the God-Emperor's will."

Karna gave her a curious look but changed the subject saying, "I hear they found Desity's remains. What little there was will be interred in the Convent on Ophelia VII."

Justini was saddened by the loss but affirmed, "Desity wouldn't have wanted to die any other way, she always refused the offers to transfer to a civil order. She would have hated life in the Hospitallers, Dialogus or Famulous, she never wanted anything other than to die with her bolter in hand."

Praxi sighed forlornly, "That's small comfort."

Yet Resita declared, "Desity died in service to the God-Emperor, such is the desire of every Sister."

But Praxi scoffed, "Right now the only things I desire are a shower and a bag of sugar-canes."

Justini interrupted their banter to say, "Look out, the Canoness is coming." Indeed Phantea was picking her way over to them, her armour looking as battered as theirs. Her exposed face was bruised and purple but her head was held high as she marched closer. Wearily the squad got to their feet and bowed to their superior, Justini wincing as her shoulder throbbed. Phantea looked them over for a second then said, "Be at ease Sisters."

Karna spoke first saying, "Canoness, we offer contrition for our appearance, our armour…"

Phantea cut her off saying, "Bears the marks of true valour. I won't berate a Sister for not polishing her plate mid-battle. Besides I am not here for rebuke but to offer praise."

"Praise?" Karna asked in confusion.

"Indeed," Phantea said, "I have reviewed the accounts and they tell me your squad was in the thick of the fight. It seems one of you brought down a Sorrow-shrieker, single-handed."

Praxi spoke up then saying, "It was Justini, she blew that bastard to hell and back!"

Justini grimaced at the boisterous tone but Phantea seemed pleased and said, "Justini… of course. I expected nothing less of you. "

Justini was embarrassed to be picked out so and demurred, "I was but the hand of the God-Emperor and I certainly wasn't alone. The Penitent Engines wore it down, I merely finished it off."

Phantea grew cold then and said, "Selosha… I know that was hard to bear but her crimes were unforgivable. Desertion, lying, the seduction of a pilot and manipulation of her Sisters, I had to…"

Justini dared to interrupt and say, "We understand Canoness. This was meant to be."

Phantea frowned as she inquired, "Oh?"

Justini didn't realise it but her face was filled with fanatical zealotry as she uttered, "Without her Penitent Engine the battle would have been lost, without Selosha's crimes there would have been no Penitent Engine. This is not random chance; I see the hand of the Golden Throne at work. Truly all things happen in accordance with the God-Emperor's will!"

Phantea gave her a very worried looked but said, "Well… yes… of course they do. Anyway, I need to speak to you all, I have new tasks for you."

Karna stepped in to say, "We await your orders."

Phantea elaborated, "Our casualties were heavy and the ranks are in disarray. Confessor E'zard was badly hurt in the fight and is being carried to an Apothecarion, that leaves me to reorganise this mess. Many squads are below combat effective strength, including yours and I must make changes to bring us back to meaningful numbers."

Praxi blinked and asked, "We are to be merged with another squad?"

That was a troubling thought, after everything they had gone through to be lumped in with strangers was an upsetting prospect. Yet Phantea informed them, "Not quite, there is a large squad who has lost their Sister Superior. Karna, I want you to take them in hand."

That was even more baffling and Justini exclaimed, "You're breaking us up? Sending us to reinforce other units?"

Phantea didn't seem upset at the outburst and laughed, "By no means, for your great efforts this day you three are to be elevated. My elite guard did not survive the battle, thus I require new Celestians."

Justini blinked in amazement, Celestians, the most skilled and honoured of all the Adepta Sororitas. To be a Celestian was to be Phantea's right hand, her personal bodyguards and emissaries of her authority. They would have the power to detain and punish any their Sisters found in breach of the Order's rules and would be expected to fight in the most desperate of missions. Celestians were the best of the best, the bravest of the brave and to join their ranks was a shining laurel.

Resita was the first to speak saying, "We… we are favoured by the God-Emperor!"

Justini agreed, "Our thanks Canoness, we are privileged indeed to stand at your side."

Phantea nodded sagely and said, "Yes Justini, we shall be seeing a lot more of each other from now on."

Justini though there was something odd about that remark but Karna smiled and said, "My congratulations."

Justini realised this meant they would be parted from the Sister Superior, they had never been close but it was a sad thought nonetheless. She looked at Karna and said, "I wish you well Sister."

Karna smiled sadly and said, "Don't be sad, no squad stays together forever but I will remember this time with fondness. This has been the finest squad I have ever led."

Justini found that a tad trite, Karna had never been overly affectionate or free with her praise, but such were the things one said at times like this. However Praxi seemed not to have been really listening, for she exclaimed, "Celestians! We are to be Celestians, the most elite guard of the Sororitas, imagine the laurels we will…"

Praxi trailed off, looking over Justini's shoulder with her eyes wide and mouth wide. Justini frowned and awkwardly turned about, her shoulder pulling at her as her head moved. She looked over the landscape and beheld a most wondrous sight. Marching towards them were a line of Ceramite clad warriors, Space Marines, with their heads held high. Pride oozed off them but that was marred by the state of their armour. Ceramite plates were seared black and icons of allegiance and contrition had been scorched clean off. They looked like they had been walking through a blast furnace, one that had been filled with explosives. At their head marched a tall warrior with twin lightning claws, Erathor, Justini vaguely recalled him being called. He was carrying something in one arm and steered directly at Phantea, his unhelmed face looking sullen and angry.

The Space Marines pulled up before them and Erathor growled, "There you are, I've been looking for you."

Phantea looked up at him and replied, "Captain, I welcome your presence. Where have you been?"

"Fighting," Erathor briskly stated, "We took out the shield pylons and the Traitor Marines."

"That was you?" Justini started, finally grasping why the shield array had exploded.

Erathor muttered, "And all it cost was half my Company, forty good Brothers died in that inferno."

Phantea looked about and asked, "Where is your Chaplain?"

"Dead," Erathor spat, "He gave his life to win your war for you."

Justini's heart fell, the wise Chaplain who had steered her away from the path of evil was gone. It was a tragic moment, but he had died in service to the God-Emperor, Justini would count herself fortunate to pass so. Phantea however had more temporal concerns and remarked, "I would not say this war is done yet."

Erathor took the bundle in his arm and tossed it at Phantea's feet and Justini saw it was a head, one with a metal face. The lights of the eyes were dull and inert and a trickle of black blood wept from the stump of the neck. Phantea looked at it curiously and inquired, "Is that Ferro Corde?"

"It is," Erathor answered, "We stormed the Golem-foundry after the shield fell and ripped out the heart of the Heretic's operations. The Disciples of Ruin are finished."

Justini could hardly believe the master of the Disciples of Ruin and architect of the Flesh-Golems was dead. He had appeared invincible, his dark hand seemingly at work in all aspect of the war. For years she had lived in dread of his next creation and it was stunning to think that he was gone. She gasped, "By the Throne, how did you manage to kill him?!"

Erathor let slip a wry smirk and declared, "Very slowly, it took me a lot of cuts to find something vital in his body. It must have been a very painful end for him."

"Good," Phantea declared, "Destroying the Golem-foundry leaves the Heretics leaderless, their destruction is inevitable."

Erathor paused then and said, "I spied your Inquisitor friend sulking about up there, he seemed to be making a beeline for the Arch-heretic's sanctum."

"Luco?" Phantea sighed, "Typical of an Inquisitor, always with some nefarious agenda, always conveniently absent when there's real fighting to be done. Still, the Holy Ordos have their duties and we have ours. Let us focus on our own responsibilities."

Erathor lifted an eyebrow and said, "Wise words, we need to cleanse this Hive and then I intend to depart and continue our Quest, with the few Brothers I have left."

Phantea looked doubtful as she said, "The Heretics are broken but not dead, they will dig in and fight to the last, not to mention the roving Flesh-golems. It may take months to cleanse this Hive."

Erathor snorted at that and jerked his head upwards. Justini's eyes rose to the armourglass dome overhead and she was surprised to see the contrails of falling drop ships. Hundreds of them descending from orbit, carrying thousands of Imperial troops to the surface. Without the impediment of the void shield they were landing all over Tethys Hive, bringing fresh reinforcements to every inch of the city. Justini realised they would sweep the city clear in days, crushing the Heretics utterly once and for all. Boldly Erathor declared, "See victory arrive on wings of fire. This war is over!"


	42. Chapter 42

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 42**

Across Tethys Hive the fires of war slowly gutted out, three days of constant fighting seeing the Disciples of Ruin swept from every last bastion. Hundreds of thousands of eager Fraters overran their defences, crushing the Heretics with their endless numbers. The Flesh-golems reaped a fearful tally in defeat, costing many lives to bring down but they were scattered and leaderless, easy to isolate and destroy one by one. Three days of constant fighting had all but obliterated the Heretics, save for the occasional Buzz-wing or Mortis-Wyrm, and the long process of rebuilding could begin.

There was a heady atmosphere over the massed faithful, a sense of triumph that swept all in its embrace and stirred hearts into a frenzy. The Faithful sang songs of joy and celebration, they offered prayers and hymns and danced together in the streets. High above endless lines of Fraters queued outside the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor, waiting to be allowed in as Priests and Sanctioned Psykers of the Astra Telepathica swept the taint of Chaos from its holy interior.

Yet further away another type of celebration was taking place. Just outside the spaceport a gathering was occurring, thousands of Fraters lining the road that led to the Hive's largest gate. A thin line of black held the crowd back, the Sisters of the Order of the Valorous Heart, parting a path down their centre, leaving a route for processions to travel. Before the gate stood the leaders of the Ecclesiarchy, Cardinal Pontius Pilate, Inquisitor Luco, Confessor E'zrad (in a wheelchair) and Canones-Preceptor Phantea.

Justini was standing behind Phantea, pristine in her new armour. Her new rank as a Celestian had granted her new armour and gear, she was adapting as best she could but was keenly aware that she had a lot more training ahead, under Phantea's personal direction. Canoness Phantea had been a constant presence since their elevation, watching them keenly. All three new Celestians had striven to impress her but Justini had the odd impression that Phantea's interest was more than professional. She kept finding excuses to talk to Justini, she inquired as to her interests and hopes, as well as her fears and worries. It was more personal relationship than Justini was used to, but then she didn't know much about the higher order's practices, maybe this was how Celestians and Canoness' acted. Yes, that had to be it, as Phantea's bodyguards they had to know each other's minds inside and out, that had to be the reason.

Justini shifted her weight and winced as her shoulder throbbed. Three days of healing wasn't nearly enough to knit bones properly and her arm was still locked solid. Praxi saw her reaction and asked, "Still hurts?"

Justini kept her eyes front but answered, "Yes, it will take weeks to heal."

On her other side Resita mused, "I hear the Astartes can heal wounds in minutes, they can be left for dead on the battlefield and then be back up and fighting within hours."

Justini sighed, "Oh, for the blessings they enjoy."

Praxi snorted, "No thanks, their daily regimes make ours look timid and half-hearted. I bet none of them has ever tasted a sugar-cane. Besides only men can become Astartes, there are no female Space Marines."

Justini frowned in curiosity as she asked, "Why not?"

"Dunno," Praxi answered, "Something about incompatible genetics. They told us about it in our briefings back in the convent, don't you remember?"

Justini let out a grin and confessed, "I struggled to stay awake in those dreary lectures. I always preferred the assault course."

But Resita commented smugly, "I was tending to my prayers."

Justini breathed deeply and looked over the crowd, seeing the waiting people. Then she inspected the leaders of the faithful and asked, "Do you have any idea why we are here?"

Praxi answered, "Rumour in the Chantry-barracks holds it was Luco's idea, something about waving off the Space Marines."

"Luco?" Justini asked in confusion.

"Strange isn't it," Praxi remarked, "Apparently he strong-armed the Cardinal into it, he was exceptionally harsh about it. The Cardinal was irate but dared not cross an Inquisitor."

Justini eyed the elusive Luco and wondered what he was up to but out loud she said, "Well, they did the win the war for us. I suppose it is only right we honour them."

Resita was indignant as she spat, "We would have won eventually, the God-Emperor was on our side."

Justini agreed, "Yes, He was indeed watching over us."

Praxi eyed her and said, "You sound very certain of that."

Justini affirmed, "He is with us always, this I know to be true."

"Good," Praxi said, "I'm sure we'll need His favour wherever we go next."

Justini smiled slightly and said, "Wherever it is, I am glad to be going with you."

Praxi affirmed, "Yes, we go together and we should feel sorry for whoever dares stand against us."

Suddenly there was a stir among the packed masses and Justini's head turned to behold what was approaching. Marching between the long lines of Sisters came a convoy of Astartes, Transhuman warriors marching in lockstep with their bolters held tightly to their chests. Their boots pealed like ringing bells as their feet struck the ground with absolute precision, a coordination of action that would have put Mechanicus Skitarii to shame. Next in line were two lines of biers, carried on the backs of servitors, each one bearing a body sealed in armour and shrouded in black veils. The corpses of those Space Marines who had fallen in the final battle, or at least those who could be found. Behind them came rumbling vehicles, war machines and transports, carrying the packed-up base back to the starport. Gaggles of serfs walked alongside those machines, their marching far less precise but their solemn faces carrying great dignity nonetheless.

The convoy came up to the waiting lords of the Ecclesiarchy and ground to a halt. Then two warriors stepped forward, Captain Erathor and a warrior in scorched armour, with flecks of white clinging to the edges of his battered plate. Captain Erathor had his helm doffed and he looked over the line of waiting dignitaries standing in the shadow of the gate, before growling, "You're in my way."

Cardinal Pontius Pilate shuffled forward and raised his voice to say, "We are here to honour your efforts, without your…"

Erathor cut him off barking, "I have no time for your pontificating, war calls us to the stars."

Pilate quailed before the anger in his voice but Luco intervened hissing, "I suggest you make time."

Erathor glared at him but even a Space Marine Captain could not rebuke an Inquisitor in public and so sighed, "Make it quick then."

There was a long pause then Luco elbowed Pilate, who sounded like a man reading from a prepared script, as he said, "You have fought well, bringing victory to this endless war and ending a threat that imperilled the Imperium itself. You shed your blood for the preservation of the Emperor's rule and made great sacrifices."

Suddenly the warrior next to Erathor spat, "Don't talk to us about sacrifice! We brought eighty-nine Brothers to this misbegotten planet and we leave with forty-one. How are we meant to continue our quest with so few Marines?!"

"Watch your tongue Santes," Erathor spat, "This is not the time or the place."

But Santes growled, "Tygra was right, this quest is a death sentence."

Erathor glanced at him and snapped, "Wrethan would not stand for such talk."

"Wrethan is dead," Santes barked, "He died in a fireball and took a lot of our Brothers with him. I only survived because I was buried three levels down and you were lying under a pile of Flesh-golems. Wrethan got half our company killed with his talk of redemption. It always was a fool's dream."

Erathor barked, "And yet we shall continue in our quest. You will cease such talk; you shame our Chapter speaking so before outsiders."

Santes fell silent, shamed at expressing such thoughts before those not of his Chapter. Luco had been watching keenly and said, "We are not unaware of your sacrifices and as such have prepared a token, to speed you on your way."

Erathor raised a hand to say, "Our Death Oath prohibits us accepting any laurels or glories."

But Luco smirked as he said, "Trust me, you will accept this one… Pilate."

Cardinal Pilate looked like he had swallowed a lemon but he waved a Deacon forward, bearing a thick scroll on a velvet pillow. Pilate picked it up and held it out with both hands proclaiming, "This is the writ of our hand and it bears our seal. Speaking on behalf of the Supreme Lord of Terra and Master of Mankind, I hereby testify as to your selfless dedication and noble sacrifice. I bear witness that you have fought in accordance with the highest ideals of the Imperium, with no thought as to your own safety or survival. As such the God-Emperor declares any and all sins you may have previously committed to be absolved."

Erathor's jaw fell and his eyes widened as he gasped, "You... you can't do that."

Luco grinned as he said, "The Inquisition can and my seal is affixed to that record, as are the seals of the Administratum, the Arbites, the Mechancius and the Astra Telepathica. We speak as one when we say the God-Emperor forgives you."

Erathor looked stupefied as he took the scroll, his huge gauntlet making it look small in his grip. His hand shook as he lifted the scroll to his eyes then he drew in a breath and shouted, "Holois, get up here!" From the convoy emerged a small and wizened man, barging his way forward, inching through the crowd as best he could. He walked to the front; his spine bent from age and came to a halt next to Erathor, who unfurled the scroll before him. The serf peered at the tiny script covering it, examining it in detail, then he took a book from his belt and compared it to several pages within. Finally he took an eyeglass and held it up to one eye as he inspected the seals fixed to the bottom, minutely examining them for any evidence of fraud or trickery.

The whole crowd waited with bated breath until this Holois finally tucked his tools away and declared, "All appears to be in order, this is indeed an official pardon."

Erathor sounded amazed as he gasped, "We… we are redeemed? We can go home?"

Santes concurred, "I don't believe it, this can't be genuine."

Yet Holois affirmed, "This document is legitimate and carries the authority of Him on Terra, to question this is to doubt the Emperor himself. I find I have no choice but to hereby declare your oaths fulfilled, all of them."

Erathor's head snapped around and he glared at the Cardinal as he barked, "Why have you done this?"

Pilate replied as if by rote, "Perhaps you do not understand the significance of this victory. You opened the way for our armies; you killed Ferro Corde and destroyed his diabolical Flesh-golems. Tethys has been reclaimed for the Imperium and the Disciples of Ruin are broken. Word of this triumph spread across the planet and the enemy falters in fear. City after city is falling to our armies; we expect total victory within one Terran year. Yet more than that, word has gone forth that the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor is ours once again and the faithful rejoice across the length and breadth of the Sector. People look to the skies and see the glory of the Emperor looking back at them, armies rally at the news and workers redouble their efforts. It is no exaggeration to say that this victory has turned the tide of battle on a hundred worlds. You have given us more than just a victory, you have restored hope to humanity and the Imperium is resurgent for it!"

Luco nodded solemnly and said, "I suggest you take your pardon and go home, quickly and quietly."

Erathor glared at him and said, "I shall, but do not think I shall forget you… Luco."

Justini had been standing at the back, watching all this occur and she saw a tiny flinch on Luco's face. A small voice whispered in her mind that these two knew something she didn't, something Luco didn't want widely known. She wondered if perhaps the Inquisitor had arranged all this to get rid of the Space Marines, to make sure they went far away and kept their mouths shut. It sounded far-fetched, but if Luco hadn't fancied his chances of eliminating the Space Marines in battle then this show would suffice. Either way Luco got what he wanted, to remove the witnesses to his schemes.

While Justini had been thinking this Erathor lifted the scroll high and declared, "Brothers, we are redeemed! Behold, proof that we are forgiven. Praise the Emperor for his generosity and mercy!"

As one the assembled Space Marines slammed their fists on their chest and bellowed, "Praise the Emperor!"

As one the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, thousands of mortals celebrating the heroes who had won this war. Waves of rapturous adulation swept out, ringing from the buildings as they cheered for the Storm Heralds, affirming their place as the champions of humanity. None could have doubted the joy and elation surging among the people and Erathor cried aloud, "Come Brothers, we are going home!"


	43. Chapter 43

**Redemptio Opus Chapter 43**

_*Several weeks later*_

The vault was dark and oppressive, a pool of liquid silence making ears ring with the thunder of one's own heartbeat. The vault was filled with short plinths bearing various items, broken Ceramite shards, spent weapons and more exotic artefacts, some whose existence would earn a death sentence on most worlds. Illumination was provided by a single lumen orb but it was enough for him to see by.

Kneeling in a corner was a lone Space Marine. He was naked, his armour having been stripped from him, and bound to the floor by short chains that shackled his limbs, neck and torso. He had little room to move but he could survey the vault from his position, one that he had held for weeks. Even Transhuman muscles were tested by such lengths of time but Christof had never been a stranger to hardship.

The Fallen Space Marine was a sorry sight, his face being a mass of burnt scar tissue. Astartes physiology was remarkable but even his genhanced body could not remove such scars, he would bear them forever. Still he had been lucky, had he not snatched that Rosarius from the Chaplain in the fight he would have died in the inferno. The conversion field had protected him from the worst but he had still been taken to the brink of death. His memories were broken after that, he remembered laying amid the flaming ruins in utter agony, he remembered being taken out of the rubble by mortals and then nothing until he had woken up here.

Normally he would have sworn terrible revenge for such a defeat but he was certain that self-righteous Chaplain was dead and he was far more interested in his escape. Once more Christof tested his chains but found no weakness. Whoever had forged these understood a Space Marine's limits, they had put serious thought into how much force an Astartes could apply and then they had overdesigned. The chains were also coated in some alkaline substance, so chewing his way out with acidic salvia wasn't an option.

Christof was certain this vault was buried deep within a starship for he had felt the sensation of warp translation several times since his incarceration. Currently they were idling in realspace, a mere hop between jump points. Such had been the pattern for weeks but Christof frowned as he felt the gravity shifting. Several minutes later he felt it shift again and then again in the all too familiar yaw of emergency manoeuvres, there was only one conclusion, the ship was under attack. Sensing opportunity Christof looked about for something he could use, but all he saw were broken relics, the stasis preserved bodies of Rauf and Gwayne, various bits of armour, his own Heavenfall blade and the golden Crozius of that damned Chaplain Wrethan.

Suddenly the vault door clunked, a sign that his captor was coming to interrogate him again. Christof steeled himself as the numerous locks clunked open then the massive door swung wide to reveal a mortal in power armour: Inquisitor Luco. The Inquisitor had been probing him for weeks, trying every trick in the book but Christof had given him nothing. Christof was expecting another round of questioning but he was surprised to see a team of Stormtroopers running inside, carrying a heavy bolter with them. They hurried inside and sealed the door behind them, then they set up facing it.

Meanwhile Luco ran over to Christof, but stopped ten paces short and set down a heavy case, he always did that Christof had noted, Luco was not foolish enough to come close to a hostile Space Marine. Luco's pale face looked troubled and he was sweating in fear as he cried, "You, what have you done?!"

Christof frowned as he deflected, "Having trouble?"

Luco looked genuinely scared as he spat, "I don't know how you contacted them but I won't let you escape, your friends won't get past us."

Christof didn't have a clue what he was talking about but he knew anything that could scare an Inquisitor couldn't be good. The universe was filled with threats and all of them meant him ill. Christof immediately decided Luco was the lesser threat and said, "I am not part of whatever this is but I have no wish to die. Let me out and I'll help you."

Even terrified for his life Luco snorted in derision, "I'm not letting you go anywhere, but you can tell me how this works."

Luco opened his case and took out a large bronze circle, set with a Navigator's eye in the centre. Christof's eyes widened as he beheld the Porta Infernale, the ultimate freedom and a means to escape any trap. Christof had already guessed the Inquisitor had stolen it from Ferro Corde's sanctum, their interrogations had danced around the issue without ever touching on it but he knew how to read between the lines. Avarice stirred in his hearts and Christof said, "I never saw it in action but I know it requires a sacrifice, an unwilling one."

Luco sounded frantic as he hissed, "What else?!"

Christof replied, "I don't know, I'd have to examine it first."

"Stop stalling, were almost out of time!" Luco cried.

Right then a massive impact slammed into the door, ringing loudly in the vault. Luco swore loudly and dropped the Porta Infernale, drawing a plasma pistol as he hurried back to his troops. Christof didn't know what had spooked the Inquisitor, but a nasty suspicion was forming in his mind, yet it was impossible, surely it couldn't be them… could it?

Frantically Christof threw himself against his chains, in a desperate attempt to reach the Porta Infernale and escape. He strained until his skin cut on the shackles and blood trickled down his limbs but he still couldn't move. He didn't care though, he had to break free, he had to get out of here before it was too late. He fought to break free with all his strength but it was no use, he was trapped and his time had run out. Slowly the door to the vault began to glow, dully at first but then brighter and brighter as drops of molten metal began to weep down the insides. Christof recognised the signs of melta charges burning through the door and redoubled his efforts to escape but it was pointless, he could not break his chains and all he could do was watch as the Inquisitor and his retinue took up positions of cover, aiming shotguns and the Heavy Bolter in readiness. Christof knew it would be pointless though, for he had deduced who was coming through that door.

The vault's entrance was a brilliant white now and metal cascaded like a waterfall as it melted. Then it collapsed, falling into slag upon the floor and leaving the way open. Instantly Luco's retinue opened fire, filling the dark hole with a torrent of firepower. The Heavy bolter thundered and shotguns roared, creating a deadly whirlwind of shots and shells. Luco backed them up with sunburst blasts of his plasma pistol, firing over and over until the pistol blazed a cherry red. Such a storm of firepower should have destroyed anything living, it would have cut down a thousand mortal men, but the figures coming through the doorway were in no way mortal.

From the darkness emerged five figures with looming shoulders and broad ablative plates. Their helmets were bulldog shaped and reinforced struts supported their immense girth, which was so doughty as to make power armour looked flimsy and weak. They stomped forward with a heavy gait, knees rising high as the cumbersome plate forced them to exaggerate their motions, but they did not look any less deadly for it. Their armour was bone white, marked with mysterious icons and hidden cyphers, while their shoulders bore the mark of a red-winged sword, broken halfway along its length. Christof recognised them instantly: they were the finest warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, the Terminator elite of the Deathwing.

Dark Angels.

The Deathwng walked through a storm of firepower, thick rounds bouncing off their plate without the slightest hint of damage. They could have been strolling through the lightest rain for all the trouble they experienced, then their hands raised double-barrelled Storm bolters and the slaughter began. Screaming bolt rounds swamped the area, reducing cover to rubble and turning Stormtroopers into sprays of bloody mist. Men disintegrated into showers of offal as the Terminators scythed them down, astonishing amounts of firepower destroying the defenders utterly.

To their credit the Stormtroopers did not break, they held their positions and fired to the last. It made no difference, the Deathwing went through them like a Chainsword through a grot, decimating them in seconds and reducing the defence to ashes. Only Inquisitor Luco managed to land a telling blow, darting out of cover to fire a plasma bolt at a Terminator. The bolt scored a deep groove through the shoulder of a Dark Angel, marring his arcane heraldry but deflecting off the Adamantium undersheath. A heartbeat later the Terminator returned the favour, a bolt round catching Luco's belly armour a glancing blow, leaving him to collapse to the ground in a puddle of blood as shrapnel was driven into his guts. Silence fell as the Terminators finished their slaughter and swept the area. Christof glared at the Deathwing, communicating his defiance with his eyes but the Dark Angels seemed impervious to his scorn as their Sergeant called out, "Area secured and the target is located, Interrogator-Chaplain."

Christof's eyes darted to the door and he beheld another figure entering, this one clad in black armour wrapped in cream robes. His armour bore icons of hooded figures, keys and winged swords and from his belt hung a thick book, wrapped in many chains. He bore a Crozius, with another hooded figure represented between the spread wings and a loop of sharp knives hung at his hip. But the worst thing about him was his skull-helm, a terrifying visage of death and judgement, with red-eyed lenses that burned with contempt.

Christof knew him to be one of the Dark Angel's feared Interrogator-Chaplains, the hunters of the Fallen and he understood that he had but one chance of escape. As if hearing his thoughts the Chaplain stamped down on the Porta Infernale, shattering it into a thousand pieces and crushing Christof's one hope evading his fate. The Chaplain looked about and then called, "Is this it?"

The Terminator Sergeant stomped closer and replied, "Yes Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai, the astropathic report was correct. There were Fallen upon Ophanim IX."

Asmodai's skull-helm turned to take in the biers and he declared, "Rauf and Gwayne, long have their names been cursed among the Unforgiven. A shame they had no opportunity to repent but with their deaths two more names are stricken from the litanies of shame."

Asmodai's eyes turned to take in the room, pausing on the golden Crozius Redeeming-flame and Christof's sword then he declared, "The Sword of Solitude, long has a place been set aside in the vaults of the Rock for its return. I claim these relics for the Dark Angels, take all this to the Rock, in time they shall find service with new bearers."

Then his eyes fell upon Christof and he stepped nearer growling, "Now we come to the true matter, the Traitor is found at last."

Christof gazed up into that merciless skull-helm and knew his fate was sealed but he clung to his defiance as he spat, "I am no Traitor!"

Asmodai leaned in and growled, "Your guilt is known, your name is recorded among the ranks of the Fallen."

Christof pleaded desperately, "But I wasn't fighting for Luther! Listen to me, I was fighting for the Lion! Not all taken from Caliban were traitors, some were loyal and merely swept up in the disaster."

Asmodai's eyes didn't waver as he spat, "Lies and not original ones at that. All Fallen plead their innocence… at first."

Christof glared up at him and cried, "I have done nothing wrong!"

Asmodai sneered, "Nothing? Your actions tell a different tale, you ran from the Chapter, you slew Brother Dark Angels in your flight, these are not actions of an innocent soul."

"It…" Christof stammered, "It was self-defence."

At that moment there was a feeble groan as Luco stirred in his puddle of blood and his trembling voice called, "Help me… please… I am an agent… of the Holy Ordo's."

Asmodai didn't even bother to look back as he said, "Sergeant..."

"Apologies Interrogator-Chaplain," the Sergeant replied then there was the sound of a single shot being fired and Luco's brains were blown all over the floor.

Asmodai waited a second then ordered, "Send word to Brother-Captain Merkam, Eighth Company is to set the ship's plasma reactors to overload then evacuate. Secure these relics then clear our route to the gunships, our unenlightened Brothers must not see what occurred this day. Leave no evidence that we were ever here."

The Deathwing moved to obey but Christof only had eyes for Asmodai as he spat, "I know what you want from me and I tell you I shall never give it to you."

Asmodai's red eye-lenses held no hint of clemency as he growled, "Bold words, I might even call them brave except that I have heard them before. The Fallen all spit defiance when we bring them to the Rock, protesting their innocence, but in time they all accept their true, sinful nature. In the coming weeks and months and years, you shall come to share that understanding."

Christof stared into those pitiless eyes and saw the depths of mad zealotry and hatred seething within. For the first time in his life knew fear at the prospect of what was to come and he stammered feebly, "I won't do it… I won't… I refuse."

Asmodai raised his Crozius between them, its edges glinting wickedly in the light as he uttered, "Oh but you will, in the cells of the Rock your lies shall be stripped away and you will see the truth laid bare. I shall be with you every step of the way and I promise you this: you shall repent."

_The adventure continues when the Storm Heralds return in Diem Infamia_


	44. Chapter 44

_*Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story: Diem Infamia*_

**Somewhere somewhen**

The Serrati Stellas had long been a thorn in the Imperium's side. A dense cluster of gravitic anomalies, ionic interfere and warp disturbances that befuddled sensors, fouled Astrogation and obscured the distant Astronomican. Dark and desolate worlds orbited toxic neutron stars, while lone planetary wanderers drifted aimlessly. Such a place was a haven for pirates, slavers and Orks, perennial threats to Imperial rule that simply would not die. For millennia Battlefleet Karyl had attempted to police this shoal of anarchy, aggressively patrolling for growing threats but it was an impossible task. There were too many places to hide and never enough ships to be had. So all that could be done was swat down each threat as it arose.

As the centuries passed a sense of complacency crept over the rulers of the Saint Karyl Trail, that swift following warp current that allowed safe passage between segmentums Solar and Tempestus. Threats emerged and were defeated, pirate kings arose only to be cut down, Orks swarmed but never amassed enough force to overwhelm the lynchpin worlds of Tectum, Sucaris or Glaeba. Familiarity breeds contempt, as the Imperium preaches, so the high and mighty peers of the sector came to see the Serrati Stellas as nothing more than a nuisance, a minor concern best left for another day. Only those unfortunates living on worlds nearby actually feared its potential, but nobody in the corridors of power cared if some colonists were seized by slavers or killed by Orks. The coming of the Noctis Aeterna had done nothing to change that mindset, the plethora of new threats drawing their attention elsewhere. Yet had anyone been aware of what the Serrati Stellas now concealed then they would weep at the folly of their overweening pride.

Orbiting a lifeless planetoid was a fleet, one whose existence had blighted a million worlds. Infamous killers of the void hung in the dark, their crenulations and battlements standing proud against the vacuum. Great battleships loomed over smaller cruisers and escort frigates, while shoals of attack craft swept the area ceaselessly. Ramshackle assault barques brushed past haughty thoroughbred warships, while refitted and captured transport hulks bristled with one-shot torpedo tubes. Some craft were even stranger, twisted and warped abominations that oozed perversion from every fleshy rib of their hull. One ship even had a bulbous eye growing out of its prow, a single orb ten stories high that rolled about to peer at its compatriots.

No two vessels were alike, some bore convoluted spires and elaborate flying buttress that described the mark of Tzeentch. Others bore great brass icons of Khorne, impossibly defying the laws of physics as blood boiled along their edges despite the cold of space. Other were blurred by mouldy growths and fungal fronds, where snotlings capered around icons of Nurgle. A few even had corpses hung over their towers, eternally fixed in perverse positions as praise to Slaanesh. They were as different as could be imagined yet each and every ship shared one feature, a Daemon's head surrounded by flames. The badge of the Word Bearer Traitor Legion.

Amid that display of insanity hung a rather more mundane ship, a mere cruiser, the Cruenta Caede. She was an old Hades class ship, weary from long voyages and hungry for the blessings of the shipwrights of Sicarus. She was not the most powerful, or feared ship, in the fleet but she was the command vessel, for she had long housed the Crooked Path warband, whose flag this fleet sailed under. On her bridge stood a proud warrior in crimson plate, marked with the litanies of lost Colchis. He had a pale and angular face, with sharpened teeth and an elaborate top-knot. One of his hands rested on his bolt pistol but the other was a skeletal claw, with long talons that constantly wept fresh blood. He was Kasarox the Unhallowed and he was Coryphaus of the Crooked Path.

Kasarox stood gazing out of the towering oculus, counting ships passing by and was satisfied at his handiwork. For many years he had laboured to amass this fleet, acting as an emissary to his Dark Apostle Abulaz. Many bargains had been struck and many promises made, but it had all paid off. This fleet was powerful and deadly, a match for anything the hated Imperium could muster and he intended to make the most of it. Behind him there was a cough and Kasarox turned to see his comrade Raruma fidgeting beside him. Raruma was a possessed Marine, one who was bonded with a Neverborn and as such had a bestial appearance. His hands were long claws and his feet sprouted talons while his helm's faceplate moved as if alive and the fires of hell burned in his mouth. Raruma was blessed and cursed in equal measures, granted unholy vigour but also condemned to take nothing seriously, hence his sobriquet, 'the Mocker.'

"What?" Kasarox spat testily.  
Raruma idly picked some grit from under his claw and replied, "How much longer will this take? I'm bored."

Kasarox was in no mood for his quips and spat, "It will take as long as it takes."  
Raruma snorted, "Face it, they aren't coming. You've been stood up like an ugly maid the morning after being deflowered."

Kasarox grimaced and said, "They will come, trust me."  
Raruma laughed at that, "Just because I like you doesn't mean I think the Dark Pantheon sings out of your arse."

Kasarox gritted his teeth at the casual blasphemy and snapped, "They will come, they have to, we need them… Abulaz needs them."

That shut Raruma up, even he not daring to speak ill of Abulaz before the bridge crew. Their Dark Apostle was learned in the ways of the Warp, a most cunning sorcerer indeed. Unfortunately that did not equate to tactical prowess and after a series of stinging defeats the pair of them had decided their lord needed to die. Kasarox had already suborned much of the Crooked Path to his cause, but not enough to confront Abulaz directly. Hence the need for a more cunning approach.

As if summoned by the thought there was a stir at the back of the bridge and he turned to see their master entering. Abulaz had a bald head, inked with scriptures of Chaos that carried on down his armour. He wore a cloak of flayed skin and carried the Book of Lorgar at his belt and a Black Crozius in his hand. He walked confidently, projecting authority and power, an aura of presence that made one want to prostrate before him and beg to hear his enlightened words. Kasarox had come to understand that was a deliberate effect, a glamour he wore like his armour, but that didn't make it any easier to overcome. Abulaz strode up the length of the bridge and Kasarox fell to his knees to press his forehead to the deck. His hearts warred between servile grovelling and contemptuous defiance as he fought the glamour's effect. The urge to obey was potent but he cleaved to his iron will and held to the thought that Abulaz was not worthy of his adoration.

The Dark Apostle seemed unaware of the treachery in his servant's hearts as he proclaimed, "I sense a disturbance."  
Kasarox and Raruma rose to their feet and the Coryphaus said, "We continue to scan local space but we have found nothing so far."

But Abulaz growled, "I can smell them."  
Raruma dared to say, "Maybe they were delayed cleaning their scales or perhaps they fell asleep."

Abulaz blinked once and suddenly Raruma was flung backwards like he had been hit by a wrecking ball. The spell tossed him aside like a rag doll and left him flopping upon the deck choking for air. Abulaz looked down at him and said, "Speak to me thus again, Mocker, and you will be sucking vacuum."

"Of course my lord," Raruma grovelled, "I live to serve."  
Kasarox knew it must burn Raruma to lower himself so, but he was keenly reminded as to why Abulaz was too dangerous to challenge openly. For all his inept strategy he remained a powerful sorcerer. Kasarox, licked his lips and said, "Master, I advise patience the Alpha Legion…"

Suddenly there was stir among the bridge helots, cries of alarm and distress ringing forth as their surveyors went wild. Kasarox didn't have to inspect their consoles to see why, for before his eyes something was shimmering into view, something massive. From nowhere a twin blade prow emerged, followed by a vast hull that stretched back and back for miles. Ranks of gun batteries loomed over the surrounding vessels, targeting them with insane amounts of firepower and launch bays bristled with multitudes of attack craft. Nothing in the Word Bearer fleet came close to matching this monster, it dwarfed them in every respect, for she was a Glorianna class battleship.

Abulaz peered through the oculus with avarice in his eyes and breathed, "So the legends are true, the Shadow of the Emperor does exist. The lost flagship of the XIXth Legion is restored."  
"And under the command of the XXth!" a cold and sinister voice proclaimed from the bridge hatch.

Kasarox spun on his heel and beheld an impossible sight, four Traitor Marines entering his bridge. Everybody gasped at the sudden appearance, for these were not Word Bearers. Instead they had armour covered in shimmering scales and serpentine symbols. They came helmed and armed, their leader carrying a long spear with blades at either end and a scaly cloak that wafted about even though there was no breeze to be had.

Kasarox was seriously worried as to how these intruders had got so close to his person without being detected but Abulaz smiled at the sight and called, "You must be Beta, Lord of the Shadow."  
"You are Abulaz, lord of nothing," Beta sneered.

Kasarox expected Abulaz to rage at the insult but the Dark Apostle was surprisingly calm as he said, "Do you know why I summoned you?"  
Beta shrugged, "The usual, you are assembling a conquest fleet and want to add our guns to your feeble armada."

Abulaz shook his head and said, "I desire rather more than that."  
From behind Beta one of his comrades snapped, "What you want doesn't matter because we're not interested. We only came to this meeting out of curiosity."  
Abulaz glared at Beta and spat, "You let your underling speak so?"

Beta coolly replied, "We are a cooperative, a union of the like and the like-minded. Delta, Epsilon and Talgor are free to speak."  
Raruma spoke up then, "Are you afraid your precious ship will be scratched?"

Delta spoke for them all when he replied, "No, there simply nothing in it for us."  
"Not even this?" Abulaz replied gesturing to one side. From the corner came a pair of helots wrapped in iron chains, carrying a chest between them. Within that chest lay a bright red jewel, one that glowed with inner fires and Abulaz proudly declared, "The Fulgur Vitrum!"

Beta sounded impressed as he said, "Do you know what it is that you have in your possession?"  
Abulaz stated proudly, "A gift from the Pantheon."

Beta snorted, "In other words: no, you don't know. How long have you had this and you still haven't uncovered its secrets, you should spend less time praying and more time studying."

Abulaz bristled at that and Kasarox found himself wondering which of the pair was more potent. He had the uncomfortable suspicion that Beta was far superior in lore and power to Abulaz and that the snake considered him a bungling amateur. The Dark Apostle also didn't seem to favour his chances for he hissed, "It is raw power."

Beta snorted derisively and said, "Oh it is so much more than that. You have in your possession a crystallised warp rift, a rupture in reality waiting to happen. With this I could build a weapon unlike any other, a warp rift cannon that could blow starships out of the void. Shields, armour, psychic wards... nothing could withstand this."  
Then Abulaz prompted, "So we have grounds for a bargain."

Beta sniffed, "I said I could do it, I didn't say I would."  
Behind him Delta muttered, "I told you, we're not interested."  
Epsilon agreed, "I see much for you to gain from a bargain, but nothing for us."  
Talgor affirmed, "It's a hard pass from me."

The Dark Apostle bristled and Kasarox sensed a conflict brewing, he thought for a second about letting them fight and maybe Abulaz would have the good grace to die, but knew that was foolish. Beta wouldn't have come here without taking precautions, ones that would likely kill Kasarox too, and there was the slight possibility that Abulaz might win and then the Shadow would blow them all away in revenge.

Hastily Kasarox stepped in to say, "Then we will have to kill Guilliman ourselves."  
The four Chaos Marines paused abruptly and Delta said, "Guilliman… you plan to attack his pathetic crusade fleet?"

There was a stir amongst them and Kasarox was elated to see his guess had been right, the Alpha Legion hated the XIIIth Primarch almost as much as the Word Bearers did, their enmity was legendary. Slowly, as if pondering out loud Delta said, "The killer of Guilliman would become a living legend, endless glory would fall."  
Epsilon added, "Such a deed would shake the foundations of the galaxy, power like that would set one up amongst the gods."  
Talgor muttered, "A chance to slit that self-righteous martinet's throat… I'm in."

Beta cocked his helm and remarked, "It seems the ayes have it, we shall aid your little excursion."  
Kasarox sighed in relief as the tension dissipated and he said, "With the power of the Shadow, joined to ours, we shall crush the Indomitus Crusade. The Lord of Ultramar won't stand a chance."

"More than you know," Beta declared, "With the power of the Fulgur Vitrum I shall forge a weapon that will seal his doom. Guilliman shall learn to fear the might of the Daemon-Maw!"


End file.
